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  Then on—­to play one-fingered tunes
    Upon my aunt’s piano. 
  In short, I have a headlong soul,
    I much resemble Hanno.

  (Forgive the entrance of the not
    Too cogent Carthaginian. 
  It may have been to make a rhyme;
    I lean to that opinion).

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  Then my great work of book research
    Till dusk I took in hand—­
  The forming of a final, sound
    Opinion on The Strand.

  But when I quenched the midnight oil,
    And closed The Referee,
  Whose thirty volumes folio
    I take to bed with me,

  I had a rather funny dream,
    Intense, that is, and mystic;
  I dreamed that, with one leap and yell,
    The world became artistic.

  The Shopmen, when their souls were still,
    Declined to open shops—­

[Illustration]

  And Cooks recorded frames of mind
    In sad and subtle chops.

[Illustration]

  The stars were weary of routine: 
    The trees in the plantation
  Were growing every fruit at once,
    In search of a sensation.

  The moon went for a moonlight stroll,
    And tried to be a bard,
  And gazed enraptured at itself: 
    I left it trying hard.

  The sea had nothing but a mood
    Of ‘vague ironic gloom,’
  With which t’explain its presence in
    My upstairs drawing-room.

[Illustration]

  The sun had read a little book
    That struck him with a notion: 
  He drowned himself and all his fires
    Deep in the hissing ocean.

  Then all was dark, lawless, and lost: 
    I heard great devilish wings: 
  I knew that Art had won, and snapt
    The Covenant of Things.

[Illustration]

  I cried aloud, and I awoke,
    New labours in my head. 
  I set my teeth, and manfully
    Began to lie in bed.

  Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
    So I my life conduct. 
  Each morning see some task begun,
    Each evening see it chucked.

  But still, in sudden moods of dusk,
    I hear those great weird wings,
  Feel vaguely thankful to the vast
    Stupidity of things.

* * * * *

ENVOY.

  Clear was the night:  the moon was young: 
    The larkspurs in the plots
  Mingled their orange with the gold
    Of the forget-me-nots.

  The poppies seemed a silver mist: 
    So darkly fell the gloom. 
  You scarce had guessed yon crimson streaks
    Were buttercups in bloom.

  But one thing moved:  a little child
    Crashed through the flower and fern: 
  And all my soul rose up to greet
    The sage of whom I learn.

  I looked into his awful eyes: 
    I waited his decree: 
  I made ingenious attempts
    To sit upon his knee.