I sailed among the Orcades In the green encircling seas. So near the isles our nest did glide I picked a flower at the waterside; And just so quickly were we sped That I bruised the stalk and plucked the head. There was no foam upon the waves, They swelled to glassy hills and caves; But foam white were the thorns that grew Among the meadow flowers blue. Laus tibi Domine, That gavest such a dream to me. _E. RENDALL_ (_HOME STUDENT_) EPITAPH (FOR JULIA) Here lies a Costermonger, Tall was she, Just the very size you'd wish a Christmas tree to be. All life long she stood a-hawking Small delights, Merry scornings, gay good-mornings, Kind good-nights. Bright balloons of mirth she'd cry you, Apples of jest, Laces--but you found them heartstrings-- Of the best, Quips and kisses, April laughter, Had you a mind There were posies--all she sold you Paid for in kind. Scraps of fun and fluffs of fancy, Trayfuls of toys For stock-in-trade: for customers Grown-up girls and boys. Here lies a Costermonger, Dark the world to me As when they've put the candles out On a Christmas tree. _D. L. SAYERS_ (_SOMERVILLE_) FOR PHAON WITH "THAT ETERNITIE PROMISED BY OUR EVER-LIVING POET." Why do you come to the poet, to the heart of iron and fire, Seeking soft raiment and the small things of desire, Looking for light kisses from lips bowed to sing? Less than myself I give not, and am _I_ a little thing? I walk in scarlet and sendal through the dry plains of hell, And fine gold and rubies are all I have to sell, For I am the royal goldsmith whose goods are all of gold, And you shall live for ever like a little tale that is told; When kings pass and perish and the dust covers their name, And the high, impregnable cities are only wind and flame, The insolent new nations shall rise and read, and know What a little, little lord you were, because I loved you so. SYMPATHY I sat and talked with you In the shifting fire and gloom, Making you answer due In delicate speech and smooth-- Nor did I fail to note The black curve of your head And the golden skin of your throat On the cushion's golden-red. But all the while, behind, In the workshop of my mind, The weird weaver of doom Was walking to and fro, Drawing thread upon thread With resolute fingers slow Of the things you did not say And thought I did not know, Of the things you said to-day And had said long ago, To weave on a wondrous loom, In dim colours enough, A curious, stubborn stuff-- The web that we call truth. VIALS FULL OF ODOURS