Further down the highway was the edge of a Pine Forest, dark and full of years, and as I passed I heard Time and Death whispering and chuckling together in the gloom. I hurried along and came near to the End of the World. There I met an Angel, sitting on a great flat stone. ‘Tell me, Angel,’ I said, ‘what do you do in the High Hall of Heaven in the long evenings?’ ‘We tell tales,’ replied the Angel, ‘but they are better tales than you have ever heard or read. Go burn your books, and sit among the crows until you can understand their tongue!’ TRAVESTIES A DEDICATION FOR THE ‘SHROPSHIRE LAD’ TO ALL THE GRAVEDIGGERS BETWEEN LUDLOW TOWN AND HUGHLEY You lads whose trade is liming The charnel earth anew, A lad that has been rhyming Takes off his cap to you. The lads I knew at Knighton I’ve shot and stabbed and drown’d In verse that will not brighten Lads still above the ground. And those that you’ve put under, That lie as still as stones, The years will only plunder The flesh from off their bones. ’Twas hard for lads in my time To find new mournful staves, And so I thought: ‘‘Tis high time All Shropshire’s turned to graves.’ So take this book, and read on The rhymes that I have made, Till Doomsday breaks on Bredon To end our ancient trade. A SONG IN THE MANNER OF MR WALTER DE LA MARE GO-AS-YOU-PLEASE Once on a summer’s night Go-as-you-please Saw fifty-nine witches Sat in the trees. Ghastly wet moon-faces Puckered and peered; Blind things in the darkness Gibbered and jeered; And ev’ry witch-woman there Wagged a thin beard. Each had an evil dream Under her hood; All spinning a witch-web Redder than blood Across the dim spaces Near where he stood. Their moonish old gabblement Loosened his knees, Down on his face fell Go-as-you-please. Now ev’ry summer’s night, Go-as-you-please ’ll Sing to the crazy moon ‘Pop goes the weazel.’ ‘Æ’: THE INEFFABLE SPLENDOUR OF THINGUMBOB