English

MEDIOCRITY
I have come to admire
it is so plentiful
as I watch
the squirmings
of
these unattached searchers
after spurious elegance
I say to myself
how beautiful is a derrick —
it hoists actualities upon —
a plan of
measurable height —
SWISH SWISH SWISH

trumpets and drums
Dearest Saltimbanques —
beatrice — muriel —
mary —
shaw — not garden —
" when they go the other way "
OTHER WAY — dearest — ;
REMEMBER —
Mary so knowing — emma — emily —
beatrice — muriel —
bandwaggon of heavenly saltimbanques —
yes yes — girlies — performance at eleven in the late afternoon —

In confidence with those well —
remaining kings —
it will not be selfish
of any of us
to agree
with the Bishop of Manchester
that a man may be
merely
a mollusc — a forked radish —
the eye of an ancient cactus root
yearning toward Madrid —
It would be unkind of us
only
to think he has made an
apocryphal
error

SPIRIT

I'm not a judge, I own; in short,
Religion may not be my forte.
The Church of England I belong to,
But think Dissenters not far wrong too;
They're vulgar dogs; but for his creed
I hold that no man will be d — — d.
My Establishment I much respect,
Her ordinances don't neglect;
Attend at Church on Sunday once,
And in the Prayer-book am no dunce;
Baptise my babies; nay, my wife
Would be churched too once in her life
She's taken, I regret to state,

But on the morrow Elspie kept out of the way of Philip;
And at the evening seat, when he took her hand by the alders,
Drew it back, saying, almost peevishly, " No, Mr. Philip,
I was quite right, last night, it is too soon, too sudden.
What I told you before was foolish perhaps, was hasty.
When I think it over, I am shocked and terrified at it.
Not that at all I unsay it; that is, I know I said it,
And when I said it, felt it. But oh, we must wait, Mr. Philip!
We mustn't pull ourselves at the great key-stone of the centre;

Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot!
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
While yet our England was a wolfish den;
Before our forests heard the talk of men;
Before the first of Druids was a child,
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude.
There came an eastern voice of solemn mood —
Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine,
Apollo's garland — yet didst thou divine

There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men
With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen
Their baaing vanities, to browse away
The comfortable green and juicy hay
From human pastures; or — O torturing fact! —
Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpacked
Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe
Our gold and ripe-eared hopes. With not one tinge
Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight
Able to face an owl's, they still are dight
By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests,
And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts,

O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!
All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm,
And shadowy, through the mist of passed years:
For others, good or bad, hatred and tears
Have become indolent, but touching thine,
One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine,
One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days.
The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze,
Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades,
Struggling, and blood, and shrieks — all dimly fades
Into some backward corner of the brain:

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,
The rich take off for warmer places.