Now, O Divinest, eternally fair,
Take thou this garland to gather thy hair,
Brought by a hand that is pure as the air. 
For I alone of all the sons of men
Hear thy pure accents, answering thee again. 
And may I reach the goal of life as I began the race,
Blest by the music of thy voice, though darkness ever veil thy face!

 On A crushed hat

Brown was my friend, and faithful—­but so fat! 
   He came to see me in the twilight dim;
   I rose politely and invited him
To take a seat—­how heavily he sat!

He sat upon the sofa, where my hat,
   My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim;
   Its build, unlike my friend’s, was rather slim,
And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat.

O Hat, that wast the apple of my eye,
   Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown,
      And I shall never wear thee any more;
Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie,
   And with the years the dust will settle down
      On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore!

 A SWINBURNIAN interlude

Short space shall be hereafter
   Ere April brings the hour
Of weeping and of laughter,
   Of sunshine and of shower,
Of groaning and of gladness,
Of singing and of sadness,
Of melody and madness,
   Of all sweet things and sour.

Sweet to the blithe bucolic
   Who knows nor cribs nor crams,
Who sees the frisky frolic
   Of lanky little lambs;
 But sour beyond expression
To one in deep depression
Who sees the closing session
   And imminent exams.

He cannot hear the singing
   Of birds upon the bents,
Nor watch the wildflowers springing,
   Nor smell the April scents. 
He gathers grief with grinding,
Foul food of sorrow finding
In books of dreary binding
   And drearier contents.

One hope alone sustains him,
   And no more hopes beside,
One trust alone restrains him
   From shocking suicide;
 He will not play nor palter
With hemlock or with halter,
He will not fear nor falter,
   Whatever chance betide.

He knows examinations
   Like all things else have ends,
And then come vast vacations
   And visits to his friends,
And youth with pleasure yoking,
And joyfulness and joking,
And smilingness and smoking,
   For grief to make amends.

 Sweetheart

Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know,
   More fair to me
Than flowers that make the loveliest show
   To tempt the bee.

When other girls, whose faces are,
   Beside thy face,
As rushlights to the evening star,
   Deny thy grace,

I silent sit and let them speak,
   As men of strength
Allow the impotent and weak
   To rail at length.

 If they should tell me Love is blind,
   And so doth miss
The faults which they are quick to find,
   I’d answer this: