A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend: And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end. Who will there be to comfort me Or who will be my friend? I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Sussex Weald, They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field. By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed. If I ever become a rich man, Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung And the story of Sussex told. I will hold my house in the high wood Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me. THE FANATIC Last night in Compton Street, Soho, A man whom many of you know Gave up the ghost at half past nine. That evening he had been to dine At Gressington’s--an act unwise, But not the cause of his demise. The doctors all agree that he Was touched with cardiac atrophy Accelerated (more or less) By lack of proper food, distress, Uncleanliness, and loss of sleep. He was a man that could not keep His money (when he had the same) Because of creditors who came And took it from him; and he gave So freely that he could not save. But all the while a sort of whim Persistently remained with him, Half admirable, half absurd: To keep his word, to keep his word.... By which he did not mean what you And I would mean (of payments due Or punctual rental of the Flat-- He was a deal too mad for that) But--as he put it with a fine Abandon, foolish or divine-- But “That great word which every man Gave God before his life began.” It was a sacred word, he said, Which comforted the pathless dead And made God smile when it was shown Unforfeited, before the Throne. And this (he said) he meant to hold In spite of debt, and hate, and cold; And this (he said) he meant to show As passport to the wards below. He boasted of it and gave praise To his own self through all his days. He wrote a record to preserve How steadfastly he did not swerve From keeping it; how stiff he stood Its guardian, and maintained it good. He had two witnesses to swear He kept it once in Berkeley Square. (Where hardly anything survives) And, through the loneliest of lives He kept it clean, he kept it still, Down to the last extremes of ill. So when he died, of many friends Who came in crowds from all the ends Of London, that it might be known They knew the man who died alone, Some, who had thought his mood sublime And sent him soup from time to time, Said, “Well, you cannot make them fit The world, and there’s an end of it!” But others, wondering at him, said: “The man that kept his word is dead!” Then angrily, a certain third Cried, “Gentlemen, he kept his word.