These, though my tankard is
Hung in the pantry
Up like Silenus's,
And from the chauntry
Only dry memories
Ring for the Muse:
From my indignities
Take, and excuse.

When you kept the gears in mesh
Driving on through Lettergesh,
And I kept not very far
Behind you in another car —
Not that I would cast a slur,
No; but accidents occur,
And your driving not your drawing
Was what there might be a flaw in —
Like a God a little cloud
Held you, as with speed endowed
You drove on through the divine
Light of day above the shine
Of the green and grapy sea,
Whose translucent greenery
Broke on crescent sands remote,
Goldener than Helen's throat.
For I never see a beach
Sloped within a galley's reach,
But I think of sands afar
And our Lady of the War,

Wondering how many spears
Kept Love faithful for ten years;
And you think me just a fool
Of the sentimental school,
You who revel in the quick
And are Beauty's Bolshevik;
For you know how to undress
And expose her loveliness.

You are right, but am I wrong
To love ladies named in song?
I who feel it like a duty
To love the rare and difficult Beauty
That danger never could forestall,
And towers round about it all.
What better than a far ideal
To help us with the near and real?

Well! you need not rail at me,
For you could not watch the sea,
Nor the purple mountains drawn
Like the neck of . . . . . . .;
Nor the Hawk of Achill strung
Like a cross-bow as he hung
Half invisible in blue;
All these things were lost to you,
For your eyes were strictly glued
On (a Yeatsian rhyme) the road,
And the lake vibrating bright
Just six inches to your right;
And the goats so slow to fly
Till they looked you in the eye;
And the dogs still missed at home
That you " stood no nonsense from " ,
Geese that never more may tell
Who attempts their citadel —
Geese that fledged Augustus John
Till he seemed to be a swan,
Steering through the clear ozone
For a Leda of his own.
Or a Viking who has steered,
All blue eyes and yellow beard,
To some unawakened isle,
With a reassuring smile;
Or the lion-eyed Sordello
Mountain-met was just his fellow;
Or the gifted Robin Hood,
Driven from his sheltering wood.

Then we spread the things, Ah me!
You but tolerated tea,
And the shallow lucubration
Of a pic-nic conversation;
Till — I hope I don't presume —
Suddenly profoundest gloom
Wrapped you as you gazed apart,
And not one of us had heart
To inquire what was the matter.
So we kept our frantic chatter
Up, to save an awful pause,
Guessing what could be the cause
Of your sudden silent mood,
What in daylight made you brood.
Could it be that vapour islands
Made an " Evening in the Highlands "
With the mountains in array,
Or recalled " The Stag at Bay "
And the gulf that is betwixt
Those who hunt and hang it fixed?

Did your thoughts' unwelcome pageant
Bring, perchance, your London agent?
With his face and forehead numb,
Eyes like an aquarium?
Not by trifles such as these
Was your heart deprived of ease.

Enough! There is no need to tell
How I broke the gloomy spell,
What I was inspired to give —
By bread alone doth no man live,
And water makes a man depressed:
Maybe silence had been best.

When my hawk's soul shall be
With little talk in her,
Trembling, about to flee,
And Father Falconer
Touches her off for me,
And I am gone —
All shall forgotten be
Save for you, John!