I've sung of ladies dark and fair,
Of blue, and black and hazel eyes;
Of golden, brown and raven hair;
Of maidens simple, maidens wise;
Of small, slim dames, and dames who rise
To manly heights: the thin and stout.
Now, Muse, what more can you devise --
What is there left to rhyme about?
I've rhymed of happy lovers where
The wind-blown, golden blossom flies;
I've told of fierce-eyed loves who share
A passion for some wild emprise;
I've sung of love that shrewdly lies
And love that has no kind of doubt;
Of love that blights or sanctifies --
What is there left to rhyme about?
Too oft in writing here and there
A tender song did I devise
Of lovers in a rosy lair,
Where vengeance came in grimmest guise.
Of loves who weep and agonise,
Of loves who jubilantly shout
Their joyance to the smiling skies --
What is there left to rhyme about?
ENVOY.
Erato, give thy slave a prize --
New views of love a bard may spout:
Of love that lives or love that dies --
What is there left to rhyme about?
First published in The Bulletin, 17 February 1921
