'THE DESK'S DRY WOOD' (TO JAMES WELCH) Dear Desk, Farewell! I spoke you oft In phrases neither sweet nor soft, But at the end I come to see That thou a friend hast been to me, No flatterer but very friend. For who shall teach so well again The blessed lesson-book of pain, The truth that souls that would aspire Must bravely face the scourge and fire, If they would conquer in the end? Two days! Shall I not hug thee very close? Two days, And then we part upon our ways. Ah me! Who shall possess thee after me? O pray he be no enemy to poesy, To gentle maid or gentle dream. How have we dreamed together, I and thou, Sweet dreams that like some incense wrapt us round The last new book, the last new love, The last new trysting-ground. How many queens have ruled and passed Since first we met; how thick and fast The letters used to come at first, how thin at last; Then ceased, and winter for a space! Until another hand Brought spring into the land, And went the seasons' pace. And now, Dear Desk, thou knowest for how long time I have no queen but song: Yea, thou hast seen the last love fade, and now Behold the last of many a secret rhyme! A LIBRARY IN A GARDEN 'A Library in a garden! The phrase seems to contain the whole felicity of man.'--Mr. EDMUND GOSSE in _Gossip in a Library_. A world of books amid a world of green, Sweet song without, sweet song again within Flowers in the garden, in the folios too: O happy Bookman, let me live with you! ON THE MORALS OF POETS One says he is immoral, and points out Warm sin in ruddy specks upon his soul: Bigot, one folly of the man you flout Is more to God than thy lean life is whole. FAERY GOLD (TO MRS. PERCY DEARMER) A poet hungered, as well he might-- Not a morsel since yesternight! And sad he grew--good reason why-- For the poet had nought wherewith to buy. 'Are not two sparrows sold,' he cried, 'Sold for a farthing? and,' he sighed, As he pushed his morning post away, 'Are not two sonnets more than they?' Yet store of gold, great store had he,-- Of the gold that is known as 'faery.' He had the gold of his burning dreams, He had his golden rhymes--in reams, He had the strings of his golden lyre, And his own was that golden west on fire. But the poet knew his world too well To dream that such would buy or sell. He had his poets, 'pure gold,' he said, But the man at the bookstall shook his head, And offered a grudging half-a-crown For the five the poet had brought him down. Ah, what a world we are in! we sigh, Where a lunch costs more than a Keats can buy, And even Shakespeare's hallowed line Falls short of the requisite sum to dine. Yet other gold had the poet got, For see from that grey-blue Gouda pot Three golden tulips spouting flame-- From his love, from his love, this morn, they came. His love he loved even more than fame.