(For G. P. Y.)

If I ransacked the moon for you, my lord,
Till images ungermane to our clay
And rhymes fantastic, delicate and gay
Involved you neatly in a silver cord,
You'd set inverted commas round the word
Of my extreme invention, and display
A lively mockery to scare away
All sorrow save the ultimate absurd.

But you've a magic of a nobler kind
Which makes frivolity intense and clear
As crystal, sharp with spiritual grace;
It is the natural temper of your mind
To laugh, and you will always laugh at fear
Because he wears so ludicrous a face.