The poet wrote in measure fine
Of sonorous and honeyed line
His love for Joan, the small and sweet,
Who'd come on little golden feet,
And in her rose-leaf hands, he swore,
Imprisoned him for evermore.
He sang of Joan's brown eyes, whose fire
Gave warmth like wine. His vibrant lyre
Lent music to her hair and stress
Of measured grace and tunefulness
To ears and lips' deep corners where
Were nectared sweets and essence rare.
Joan's wee, brave, lilied breasts he sang,
And at his touch a pæan rang In honor of her waist so slim,
The fondling turn of every limb,
Her neck, like suave, old ivory,
Where 'neath his lip her life ran free.
He sang a land of bliss alone
Where he might bide with love and Joan.
All raptures dear she brought to him
Of devils and of seraphim.
This wondrous song he sold next day,
And bought a stole of furs for May!
First published in The Bulletin, 17 May 1917
