Also distrust those allegorical Painters who treating of this famous scene Are used to splash the skies with lurching Cupids, Goddesses with loose hair, and broad-cheeked Zephyrs; They burnish up the soldiers’ breastplate steel Rusted with languor of their long campaign, 100 To twinkling high-lights of unmixed white paint, Giving them buskins and tall plumes to wear, While hard by, in a wanton imagery, Aquatic Triton thunders on his conch And Satyrs gape from behind neighbouring trees. I who was there, sweating in my shirt-sleeves, Felt no divinity brooding in that mess, For human splendour gave the gods rebuff. Do not believe them, seem they never so wise, Credibly posted with all new research, 110 Those elegant essayists, vagabond dramatists, Authentic and approved biographers, Solemn annalists, allegorical Painters, each one misleading or misled. One thing is true, that of all sights I have seen In any quarter of this world of men, By night, by day, in court, field, tavern, or barn, That was the noblest, East encountering West, Their silent understanding and restraint, Meeting and parting like the Kings they were 120 With plain indifference to all circumstance; Saying no good-bye, no handclasp and no tears, But letting speech between them fade away In casual murmurs and half compliments, East sauntering out for fresh intelligence, And West shuffling away, not looking back, Though each knew well that this chance meeting stood For turning movement of world history. And I? I trembled, knowing these things must be. THE SEWING BASKET (Accompanying a wedding present from Jenny Nicholson to Winifred Roberts) To Winifred The day she’s wed (Having no gold) I send instead This sewing basket, And lovingly Demand that she, If ever wanting help from me, Will surely ask it. Which being gravely said, Now to go straight ahead With a cutting of string, An unwrapping of paper, With a haberdasher’s flourish, The airs of a draper, To review And search this basket through. Here’s one place full Of coloured wool, And various yarn With which to darn; A sampler, too, I’ve worked for you, Lettered from A to Z, The text of which In small cross-stitch Is _Love to Winifred_. Here’s a rag-doll wherein To thrust the casual pin. His name is Benjamin For his ingenuous face; Be sure I’ve not forgotten Black thread or crochet cotton; While Brussels lace Has found a place Behind the needle-case. (But the case for the scissors? Empty, as you see; Love must never be sundered Between you and me.)