As I went over Chancery Lane
   (Like Agog trod I on that place)
I met a man, and strode in vain
   To read the riddle of his face.
Black was the bag he bore, and grim,
   Crammed to the lip with writings rare --
Dread, mystic writings; meat for him;
   For many another, care, bleak care.

"Hereafter" and "Hereinbefore" --
   Words, devious words with scarce an end --
A sinister and baffling lore
   No plain, blunt man could comprehend.
He passed me with a civil nod,
   Tight-lipped, unbending and precise,
And yet I did not deem it odd.
            His words had price.

"Den"
Herald, 23 January 1929, p6