Pull the curtains close again, Tuck my blanket in; Must a glorious humour wane Because birds begin Discoursing in a restless tone, Rousing me from sleep-- The finest entertainment known, And given rag-cheap? INTERLUDE: ON PRESERVING A POETICAL FORMULA (I) “There’s less and less cohesion In each collection Of my published poetries?” You are taking me to task? And “What were my last Royalties? Reckoned in pounds, were they, or shillings, Or even perhaps in pence?” No, do not ask! I’m lost, in buyings and sellings. But please permit only once more for luck Irreconcilabilities in my book.... For these are all the same stuff really, The obverse and reverse, if you look closely, Of busy Imagination’s new-coined money; And if you watch the blind Phototropisms of my fluttering mind, Whether, growing strong, I wrestle Jacob-wise With fiendish darkness blinking threatfully Its bale-fire eyes, Or whether childishly I dart to Mother-skirts of love and peace To play with toys until those horrors leave me-- Yet note, whichever way I find release, By fight or flight By being harsh or tame, The SPIRIT’S the same, the Pen-and-Ink’s the same. (II) _Epitaph on an Unfortunate Artist_ He found a formula for drawing comic rabbits: This formula for drawing comic rabbits paid, So in the end he could not change the tragic habits This formula for drawing comic rabbits made. A HISTORY OF PEACE (Solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant) Here rest in peace the bones of Henry Reece, Dead through his bitter championship of Peace Against all eagle-nosed and cynic lords Who keep the _Pax Romana_ with their swords. Henry was only son of Thomas Reece, Banker and sometime Justice of the Peace, And of Jane Reece whom Thomas kept in dread By _Pax Romana_ of his board and bed. THE ROCK BELOW Comes a muttering from the earth Where speedwell grows and daisies grow, “Pluck these weeds up, root and all, Search what hides below.” Root and all I pluck them out; There, close under, I have found Stumps of thorn with ancient crooks Grappled in the ground. I wrench the thorn-stocks from their hold To set a rose-bush in that place; Love has pleasure in my roses For a summer space. Yet the bush cries out in grief: “Our lowest rootlets turn on rock, We live in terror of the drought Withering crown and stock.” I grow angry with my creature, Tear it out and see it die; Far beneath I strike the stone, Jarring hatefully. Impotently must I mourn Roses never to flower again? Are heart and back too slightly built For a heaving strain?