ON--ON--"POET"

                      I to the open road,

                      You to the hunchbacked street --

                      Which of us two

                        Shall the earlier rue

                      That day we chanced to meet?



                      I with a heart that's sound,

                      You with sick fancies of pain --

                      Which of us two

                        Would the earlier rue

                      If we chanced to meet again?



                      I jingle homely lore,

                      While you rhyme is with kiss --

                      Which of us two

                        Will the earlier rue

                      The love of the Hoylake Miss?



                      Not I the first to go,

                      Nor I the first to deceive --

                      Which of us two

                        Shall the the earliest rue

                      Our garden of make-believe?            {211}



                       You were a Chinese god,

                      I an offering fair,

                      As we entered the

                        Garden of Allah,

                      To sing our holy prayer.



                      Entered with hearts bowed low,

                      Yet I heard a voice that cried:

                      For he is the god of the

                        Sacrifice,

                      You are the crucified.



                      It was all make-believe,

                      A foolish game of play,

                      Our garden of Allah

                        A drawing-room,

                      Our Chinese god of clay.



                      Strings of bruises for pearls,

                      Tears for forget-me-nots,

                      And a deadly pain

                        Of the sickening shame

                      Watching the fading spots.



                      As quickly they faded,

                      The heart of me faded as well,

                      Until nothing is left

                        Of my garden,

                      But a soul sunk to hell.    {212}



                                           Hail!

                  Poet prend ton lute --- Je disparaire,

                  No more together we'll enter the

                  Enchanted garden of make-believe,

                  Nor my sad soul listen while thine deceive.

                  No more you'll be the God of Sacrifice,

                  Nor I the crucified.

                  Ah, Garden of Allah --- how bitter sweet

                  Thy fruit.  Why breakest thou the heart?

                  Why spoilest thou the soul with notes

                  From thy golden lute?

                  Lo! our garden a common room,

                  Our Chinese god burnt clay, and

                  The singing of verses a funeral hymn

                  That awakes with awakening day.



                  'Twas all such a meaningless play,

                  Poet prend ton lute --- Je disparaitre.

                                           Hail!



                  Poet, take my hand --- we'll walk

                  Still a little way.

                  I'll  not desert thee at the close of day,

                    I, too, must pray.

                  A beggar asking alms of passers-by,

                    Does not refuse a drink to one who's dry

                    That once by him did lie.

                  Poet, come close --- before I leave for aye

                  Take thou my hand, we'll walk still

                  A little way.                             {213}



                  One garment covered both to keep us warm,

                  What harmed the one, was't not the other's harm?

                    Close clasped, one single form.

                  Was it not meant of aye?

                  Poet, take thou my hand --- we'll still

                  Walk a little way.

MARY D'ESTE. (MARY DEMPSEY-BLIDEN-STURGES-BEY.) {214}