The sickness of desire, that in dark days Looks on the imagination of despair, Forgetteth man, and stinteth God his praise; Nor but in sleep findeth a cure for care. Incertainty that once gave scope to dream Of laughing enterprise and glory untold, Is now a blackness that no stars redeem, A wall of terror in a night of cold. Fool! thou that hast impossibly desired And now impatiently despairest, see How nought is changed: Joy's wisdom is attired Splendid for others' eyes if not for thee: Not love or beauty or youth from earth is fled: If they delite thee not, 'tis thou art dead. 1904. 10 TO THE PRESIDENT OF MAGDALEN COLLEGE, OXFORD Since now from woodland mist and flooded clay I am fled beside the steep Devonian shore, Nor stand for welcome at your gothic door, 'Neath the fair tower of Magdalen and May, Such tribute, Warren, as fond poets pay For generous esteem, I write, not more Enhearten'd than my need is, reckoning o'er My life-long wanderings on the heavenly way: But well-befriended we become good friends, Well-honour'd honourable; and all attain Somewhat by fathering what fortune sends. I bid your presidency a long reign, True friend; and may your praise to greater ends Aid better men than I, nor me in vain. 11 TO JOSEPH JOACHIM Belov'd of all to whom that Muse is dear Who hid her spirit of rapture from the Greek, Whereby our art excelleth the antique, Perfecting formal beauty to the ear; Thou that hast been in England many a year The interpreter who left us nought to seek, Making Beethoven's inmost passion speak, Bringing the soul of great Sebastian near: Their music liveth ever, and 'tis just That thou, good Joachim, so high thy skill, Rank (as thou shalt upon the heavenly hill) Laurel'd with them, for thy ennobling trust Remember'd when thy loving hand is still And every ear that heard thee stopt with dust. 12 TO THOS. FLOYD How fares it, friend, since I by Fate annoy'd Left the old home in need of livelier play For body and mind? How fare, this many a day, The stubborn thews and ageless heart of Floyd? If not too well with country sport employ'd, Visit my flock, the breezy hill that they Choose for their fold; and see, for thence you may, From rising walls all roofless yet and void, The lovely city, thronging tower and spire, The mind of the wide landscape, dreaming deep, Grey-silvery in the vale; a shrine where keep Memorial hopes their pale celestial fire: Like man's immortal conscience of desire, The spirit that watcheth in me ev'n in my sleep. 1906. 13 LA GLOIRE DE VOLTAIRE A DIALOGUE IN VERSE. A.