Crooning like a poor mad maid, O, very low and sweet,

Drew us close, and held us bound,

Then—to the tune of Pedlar’s Pound,

Caught us up, and whirled us round, a thousand frolic feet.

Master Shakespeare was his host.

The tribe of Benjamin

Used to call him Merlin’s Ghost

At the Mermaid Inn.

He was only a crowder,

Fiddling at the door.

Death has made him prouder.

We shall not see him more.

Only—if you listen, please—through the master’s themes,

You shall hear a wizard strain,

Blind and bright as wind and rain

25

25

Shaken out of willow-trees, and shot with elfin gleams.

How should I your true love know?

Scraps and snatches—even so!

 Prev. P 24/151 next