Classic Poem

In the steep street where the sea hangs over the houses,
Hangs with all its fishes like a sky with all its birds,
Are the friends I see and the friend who is far asunder
To whom I send only words.

Late I have found you, said the great Augustine—
Friends of my Faith, you are young with its ancient youth,
But not too late, for I know though I die, these also
Go on and die in the truth.

For I know the steep street goes down, but not to destruction
For it fares though it falls, though it dips out of sight, even then
To a living sky like a sea. . . . Good luck to your fishing
O fishers of men.
Crude. Obscure. Obviously written without stopping to think. Exactly. But (as I have the honour to remark) quite true.
Finally the conception has been set and arranged so as to be suitable for Community Singing. The effect is Choral rather than Lyrical and arranged for thirty thousand voices.

O where and O where
Is the quite essential Clare
Dr. Wingrave and the Antiquaries digging everywhere
Declare they do not know—but O how horribly they care!
They dug up a book of verses and a doubtful tuft of hair
And a soaking pair of shoes that are considered Very Rare
But O where and O where
Is all the rest of Clare?
Her remains, if they remain after this terrible affair,
Whatever their defects, we should prefer them as they were:
With the poppy-coloured clothing and the absent-minded air.
We found a London typist with a wild distracted stare
Who, though wrecked by business methods, was enabled to declare
That she lived at Berkeley Something and it wasn't Berkeley Square—
So—O Clare and O Clare
I am forced to send it there

(and so on. It has seventy-eight verses in all).
Yours always