Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers,
Grant me a soft alliterative song.
FRANK.
Me, too, O Muse. And when the umpire slumbers,
Sting him with gnats a summer evening long.
LAURENCE.
Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders,
Not where the brook traditionally purls,
No; in the Row, supreme among the riders,
Seek I the gem, the paragon of girls.
FRANK.
Not in the waste of column and of coping,
Not in the sham and stucco of a square;
No; on a June-lawn to the water sloping
Stands she I honour, beautifully fair.
LAURENCE.
Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited
Back from the brows, imperially curled;
Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid
Holding the roof that covers in a world.