You read your verse to Emperors and Kings;
Princesses smiled upon you. You were great
As they, except in title. It were well
The distance lessened somewhat; Poet, you,
The prince of all the poets of our time,
Be something more, be noble, be a lord."
Then Alfred sate him down, his good grey hairs
Blown o'er his shoulders by the summer wind,
His eyes all dreamy; and he hummed a song,
Like, and yet unlike, that which Enid sang.[1]