I had been well brought up: I liked the best. My prose was modelled on Rebecca West, My “little things” erstwhile reflected tone, My brother poets claimed me as their own. In those blithe days, before the War began— Ah me, I was a safe young Georgian! Now all is chaos, all confusion. Bolshes have cast E. M. from his high throne: Wild women have rushed in, and savage Yanks Blather of Booth and Heaven: and T. S. E. Uses great words that are as Greek to me. Tell me the Truth, and ah, forgo these pranks— Whom must I imitate? Who’s really It? On whose embroidered footstool should I sit? There’s Podgrass now—he seems a coming man; Writes unintelligible stuff, half French, half Erse. He told me Philomela had technique But not much feeling; Crashaw knew his trade, But Keats had no idea of writing verse.... The thing to read (he said) had just come out, His latest work, entitled “Bloody Shout.” And then there’s Father Michael, Secker’s pal, Who’s left dear Sylvia for the Clergy-house. Michael lives sumptuously: silver, old oak, Incunabula, the Yellow Book, Madonnas, Art; Excited wobblings on the brink of Rome; The “Inner Life,” birettas, candles, Mass; Fun with Church Times and Bishops; four hair shirts, And Mr. Percy Dearmer’s Parson’s Book. He talked to me of Antinomianism And stirred the incense, while two candles burned, Then read aloud his works, with eye upturned. (Somehow I felt I’d heard it all before— When I was “boat-boy,” in a pinafore.) Are Sitwells really safe? Is Iris Tree A certain guide to higher poesy? Can Nichols be relied on, for a lead; Or should I thump it with Sassoon and Read? Or would it not be vastly better fun To write of Nymphs, with Richard Aldington? Or shall I train, and nervously aspire To join with Edward Shanks and J. C. Squire —A modest “chorus” in a well-paid choir? I’ve thought of J. M. Murry and Sturge Moore, I’ve thought of Yeats (I thought of him before). I’ve toyed with Aldous Huxley and Monro— I don’t know where I am, or where to go. Oh, mighty Mr. Gosse! Unbend, I pray! Guide one poor poet who has lost his way.... _Merveilleuses des nos Jours_ (1914) “I will now call on Alberic Morphine to give us a reading.” ... The rows of young women look up; their eyes glisten; they shiver With the kind of emotion that’s really very misleading. All have fine eyes, yellow faces, vile clothes and “a liver.” They smoke a great deal, bathe little, and wear no stays; Their artistic garments are made on the Grecian plan; They flock in their crowds to the latest “poetic” plays; And aspire to a union of souls—with some pimply young man. _Daisymead_