The moonlight dreams and silver chords are strung, And a god’s hand touches the aching lyre.” He read it through: a pretty, clinquant thing, Like bright spontaneous bird-song in the spring, Instinct with instinct, full of dewy freshness. Yes, he had genius, if he chose to use it; If he chose to—but it was too much trouble, And he preferred reading. He lit his pipe, Opened his book, plunged in and soon was drowned In pleasant seas . . . to rise again and find One o’clock struck and his unshaven face Still like a record in a musical box, And Auntie Loo miles off in Bloomsbury. V I. THE Open Sesame of “Master John,” And then the broad silk bosom of Aunt Loo. “Dear John, this is a pleasure. How are you?” “Well, thanks. Where’s Uncle Will?” “Your uncle’s gone To Bath for his lumbago. He gets on As well as anyone can hope to do At his age—for you know he’s seventy-two; But still, he does his bit. He sits upon The local Tribunal at home, and takes Parties of wounded soldiers out in brakes To see the country. And three times a week He still goes up to business in the City; And then, sometimes, at night he has to speak In Village Halls for the War Aims Committee.” II. “Well, have you any news about the war? What do they say in France?” “I daren’t repeat The things they say.” “You see we’ve got some meat For you, dear John. Really, I think before To-day I’ve had no lamb this year. We score By getting decent vegetables to eat, Sent up from home. This is a good receipt: The touch of garlic makes it. Have some more. Poor Tom was wounded on the twenty-third; Did you know that? And just to-day I heard News from your uncle that his nephew James Is dead—Matilda’s eldest boy.” “I knew One of those boys, but I’m so bad at names. Mine had red hair.” “Oh, now, that must be Hugh.” III. “Colonel McGillicuddy came to dine Quietly here, a night or two ago. He’s on the Staff and very much in the know About all sorts of things. His special line Is Tanks. He says we’ve got a new design Of super-Tank, with big guns, that can go (I think he said) at thirty miles or so An hour. That ought to make them whine For peace. He also said, if I remember, That the war couldn’t last beyond September, Because the Germans’ trucks were wearing out And couldn’t be replaced. I only hope It’s true. You know your uncle has no doubt That the whole thing was plotted by the Pope . . .” “. . . Good-bye, dear John. We _have_ had a nice talk. You must soon come again. Good-bye, good-bye. . . .” He tottered forth, full of the melancholy That comes of surfeit, and began to walk Slowly towards Oxford Street. The brazen sky Burned overhead. Beneath his feet the stones Were a grey incandescence, and his bones Melted within him, and his bowels yearned.