And watched old Father William trim His course beside the river’s brim And trembled sore-- The yokel, going for a swim Had very nearly trod on him An hour before. And now the poet’s fingers slim Were reaching out to pluck at him And hurt him more. Oh gentlemen, hark to my hymn! To be a primrose is my whim Upon the floor, And nothing more. The sky is with me, and the dim Earth clasps my roots. Your shadows skim My face once more.... Leave me therefore Upon the floor; Say _au revoir_.... Ah William! The “something more” that the primrose was to you, was yourself in the mirror. And if the yokel actually got as far as beholding a “yellow primrose”, he got far enough. You see it is not so easy even for a poet to equilibrate himself even with a mere primrose. He didn’t leave it with a soul of its own. It had to have his soul. And nature had to be sweet and pure, Williamish. Sweet-Williamish at that! Anthropomorphised! Anthropomorphism, that allows nothing to call its soul its own, save anthropos: and only a special brand, even of him! Poetry can tell alluring lies, when we let our feelings, or our ego, run away with us. And we must always beware of romance: of people who love nature, or flowers, or dogs, or babies, or pure adventure. It means they are getting into a love-swing where everything is easy and nothing opposes their own egoism. Nature, babies, dogs are so lovable, because they can’t answer back. The primrose, alas! couldn’t pipe up and say: “Hey! Bill! get off the barrow!” That’s the best of men and women. There’s bound to be a lot of back chat. You can _Lucy Gray_ your woman as hard as you like, one day she’s bound to come back at you: “Who are _you_ when you’re at home?” A man isn’t going to spread his own ego over a woman, as he has done over nature and primroses, and dogs, or horses, or babies, or “the people”, or the proletariat or the poor-and-needy. The old hen takes the cock by the beard, and says: “_That’s me, mind you!_” Man is an individual, and woman is an individual. Which sounds easy. But it’s not as easy as it seems. These two individuals are as different as chalk and cheese. True, a pound of chalk weighs as much as a pound of cheese. But the proof of the pudding is in the eating, not the scales. That is to say, you can announce that men and women should be equal and _are_ equal. All right. Put them in the scales. Alas! my wife is about twenty pounds heavier than I am. Nothing to do but to abstract. _L’homme est né libre_: with a napkin round his little tail. Nevertheless, I am a citizen, my wife is a citizeness: I can vote, she can vote, I can be sent to prison, she can be sent to prison, I can have a passport, she can have a passport, I can be an author, she can be an authoress. Ooray! OO-bloomin-ray! You see, we are both British subjects. Everybody bow! Subjects! Subjects! Subjects!