A STORM BEATEN old watch-tow
A blind hermit rings the hour.
All-destroying sword-blade still
Carried by the wandering fool.
Gold-sewn silk on the sword-blade,

WHERE has Maid Quiet gone to,
Nodding her russet hood?
The winds that awakened the stars
Are blowing through my blood.
O how could I be so calm

WHAT need you, being come to sen
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, un
You have dried the marrow from the

BID a strong ghost stand at the h
That my Michael may sleep sound,
Nor cry, nor turn in the bed
Till his morning meal come round;
And may departing twilight keep

Come play with me;
Why should you run
Through the shaking tree
As though I’d a gun
To strike you dead?

HIS chosen comrades thought at sc
He must grow a famous man;
He thought the same and lived by r
All his twenties crammed with toil
‘What then?’ sang Plato’s ghost.

Come let us mock at the great
That had such burdens on the mind
And toiled so hard and late
To leave some monument behind,
Nor thought of the levelling wind.

(For Harry Clifton)
I HAVE heard that hysterical wom
They are sick of the palette and f
Of poets that are always gay,
For everybody knows or else should

THIS great purple butterfly,
In the prison of my hands,
Has a learning in his eye
Not a poor fool understands.
Once he lived a schoolmaster

I lived among great houses,
Riches drove out rank,
Base drove out the better blood,
And mind and body shrank.
No Oscar ruled the table,