Dear George,
At last the blowfly's buzz retreats,
The sweats of summer fade, the autumn heats
Withdraw their torrid mantle. Winter comes.
No more the sharp mosquito whines and hums
Around the sleepers in their burning bed.
Keen winter nips them on the nose instead.
The sun, the regular soldier of the sky,
No longer flays us with his angry eye,
For mists and frosts and wild wet winds at last
Return—like friends recovered from the past.
One friend's away. What reason, what unreason,
Drives you to shun this retrospective season?
You should be here to pledge me drink for drink,
When, by my fire, into my chair I sink:
To bandy joke for joke, while stormy night
Rampages, rages, roars with all his might,
Whips the forsaken streets with whirling rains,
Rattles the doors, and shakes the window-panes.
You should be with me, while the claret flows,
Twisting and stroking your mustachios,
And mingling memories to revive the fun
Of all that we have seen and been and done.
Ah, George, a world of girls has learnt the trick
Since you and I first guttered at the wick;
A world of boys, ruled by unruly glands,
Swaggers and swells in ostentatious stands.
Let them. For us the ageing interchange
Of slack for tense, of ordinary for strange,
Offers the promise of approaching ease
Where actions fade to reminiscences.
Few have we known who tasted more than us
Folly's extremes or passion's overplus;
Few, too, who braved with such delightful strife
The incalculable cataract of life
To reach the central torrent, the clear sweep
Of confident waters channelling smooth and deep
Beyond all idle pools and foolish froth.
One truth we firmly hold, upon my oath,
(Not only for ourselves, for others too)
That each should do as he desires to do.
Inland and northward (would that you were here)
Nature walks with a blossom at each ear;
So, though my fire be snug, my cellar rich,
I cannot blame you for your restless itch.
Old though you be in every chromosome,
Go on, go further; for the more you roam
The finer fables you will bring back home.
Where are you drinking now, with rosy face?
In what unmapped or half-forgotten place
Plotting a detour of a thousand miles
To hunt for folk-songs or for crocodiles?
Upon what mangrove beach or coral cay
Animal-naked all the livelong day?
Above what mountain, borne on silver wings,
Flying your thirst to Broome or Alice Springs?
Mean minds, though they may cage the hawk or fox,
Cannot keep radium in a cardboard box;
They cannot strap up gales or gag the thunder
Or screw down clamps to hold an earthquake under;
Much less can they emasculate or kill
Man's giant affection, his titanic will,
Or the huge Joy that drives him up the cliffs
Of the most wild Perhapses and dangerous Ifs.
Dullness and Hatred, meeting no resistance,
Lose themselves in emptiness and distance,
But vital Gusto, bursting from duress,
Prospers in unrestraint and boundlessness.
Rejoice, dear George, in freedom. I admit
That, were you here, we'd talk with better wit
Of what we wish for than of what we did,
Long since, in bright Papeete or Madrid.
Above my roof the wrathy weather rolls;
Within, red orchids bloom among the coals.
Down the wet street belated taxis hiss;
Within, is warmth. Only yourself I miss.
Were I with you, how rousing it would be,
Over some murmuring moonlit tropic sea,
To steer for scenes unvisited before,
Cuzco, Mauritius, Bangkok, Travancore.
Enough, enough! Don't tempt me any more!
Loth as yourself the tether's length to learn,
I drink (from this full glass) to your return.
At last the blowfly's buzz retreats,
The sweats of summer fade, the autumn heats
Withdraw their torrid mantle. Winter comes.
No more the sharp mosquito whines and hums
Around the sleepers in their burning bed.
Keen winter nips them on the nose instead.
The sun, the regular soldier of the sky,
No longer flays us with his angry eye,
For mists and frosts and wild wet winds at last
Return—like friends recovered from the past.
One friend's away. What reason, what unreason,
Drives you to shun this retrospective season?
You should be here to pledge me drink for drink,
When, by my fire, into my chair I sink:
To bandy joke for joke, while stormy night
Rampages, rages, roars with all his might,
Whips the forsaken streets with whirling rains,
Rattles the doors, and shakes the window-panes.
You should be with me, while the claret flows,
Twisting and stroking your mustachios,
And mingling memories to revive the fun
Of all that we have seen and been and done.
Ah, George, a world of girls has learnt the trick
Since you and I first guttered at the wick;
A world of boys, ruled by unruly glands,
Swaggers and swells in ostentatious stands.
Let them. For us the ageing interchange
Of slack for tense, of ordinary for strange,
Offers the promise of approaching ease
Where actions fade to reminiscences.
Few have we known who tasted more than us
Folly's extremes or passion's overplus;
Few, too, who braved with such delightful strife
The incalculable cataract of life
To reach the central torrent, the clear sweep
Of confident waters channelling smooth and deep
Beyond all idle pools and foolish froth.
One truth we firmly hold, upon my oath,
(Not only for ourselves, for others too)
That each should do as he desires to do.
Inland and northward (would that you were here)
Nature walks with a blossom at each ear;
So, though my fire be snug, my cellar rich,
I cannot blame you for your restless itch.
Old though you be in every chromosome,
Go on, go further; for the more you roam
The finer fables you will bring back home.
Where are you drinking now, with rosy face?
In what unmapped or half-forgotten place
Plotting a detour of a thousand miles
To hunt for folk-songs or for crocodiles?
Upon what mangrove beach or coral cay
Animal-naked all the livelong day?
Above what mountain, borne on silver wings,
Flying your thirst to Broome or Alice Springs?
Mean minds, though they may cage the hawk or fox,
Cannot keep radium in a cardboard box;
They cannot strap up gales or gag the thunder
Or screw down clamps to hold an earthquake under;
Much less can they emasculate or kill
Man's giant affection, his titanic will,
Or the huge Joy that drives him up the cliffs
Of the most wild Perhapses and dangerous Ifs.
Dullness and Hatred, meeting no resistance,
Lose themselves in emptiness and distance,
But vital Gusto, bursting from duress,
Prospers in unrestraint and boundlessness.
Rejoice, dear George, in freedom. I admit
That, were you here, we'd talk with better wit
Of what we wish for than of what we did,
Long since, in bright Papeete or Madrid.
Above my roof the wrathy weather rolls;
Within, red orchids bloom among the coals.
Down the wet street belated taxis hiss;
Within, is warmth. Only yourself I miss.
Were I with you, how rousing it would be,
Over some murmuring moonlit tropic sea,
To steer for scenes unvisited before,
Cuzco, Mauritius, Bangkok, Travancore.
Enough, enough! Don't tempt me any more!
Loth as yourself the tether's length to learn,
I drink (from this full glass) to your return.