waters. The fingers of the wind meet hers With a frail swift greeting. My love is gay and kind and hard of meeting, As the flame beneath the waters hard of meeting. L'ART When brightest colours seem but dull in hue And noblest arts are shown mechanical, When study serves but to heap clue on clue That no great line hath been or ever shall, But hath a savour like some second stew Of many pot-lots with a smack of all. 'Twas one man's field, another's hops the brew, Twas vagrant accident not fate's fore-call. Horace, that thing of thine is overhauled, And "Wood notes wild" weaves a concocted sonnet. Here aery Shelley on the text hath called, And here, Great Scott, the Murex, Keats comes on it. And all the lot howl, "Sweet Simplicity!" 'Tis Art to hide our theft exquisitely. SONG IN THE MANNER OF HOUSMAN O Woe, woe, People are born and die, We also shall be dead pretty soon Therefore let us act as if we were dead already. The bird sits on the hawthorn tree But he dies also, presently. Some lads get hung, and some get shot. Woeful is this human lot. Woe! woe, etcetera.... London is a woeful place, Shropshire is much pleasanter. Then let us smile a little space Upon fond nature's morbid grace. Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera.... TRANSLATIONS FROM HEINE VON "DIE HEIMKEHR"   I Is your hate, then, of such measure? Do you, truly, so detest me? Through all the world will I complain Of how you have addressed me. O ye lips that are ungrateful, Hath it never once distressed you, That you can say such awful things Of any one who ever kissed you? II So thou hast forgotten fully That I so long held thy heart wholly, Thy little heart, so sweet and false and small That there's no thing more sweet or false at all. Love and lay thou hast forgotten fully, And my heart worked at them unduly. I know not if the love or if the lay were better stuff, But I know now, they both were good enough. III Tell me where thy lovely love is, Whom thou once did sing so sweetly, When the fairy flames enshrouded Thee, and held thy heart completely. All the flames are dead and sped now And my heart is cold and sere; Behold this book, the urn of ashes, 'Tis my true love's sepulchre. IV I dreamt that I was God Himself Whom heavenly joy immerses, And all the angels sat about And praised my verses. V The mutilated choir boys When I begin to sing Complain about the awful noise And call my voice too thick a thing. When light their voices lift them up, Bright notes against the ear, Through trills and runs like crystal, Ring delicate and clear. They sing of Love that's grown desirous, Of Love, and joy that is Love's inmost part, And all the ladies swim through tears Toward such a work of art. VI This delightful young man Should not lack for honourers, He propitiates 

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