En l’an
trentiesme do mon
aage
Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues...
PIPIT sate upright in
her chair
Some distance
from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
Lay on the
table, with the knitting.
Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
Here grandfather
and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
An Invitation
to the Dance.
. . . . .
I shall not want Honour in Heaven
For I shall meet
Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
And other heroes of that kidney.
I shall not want Capital in Heaven
For I shall meet
Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt
In a five per
cent. Exchequer Bond.
I shall not want Society in Heaven,
Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
Than Pipit’s experience could provide.
I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
Madame Blavatsky
will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
Piccarda de Donati will conduct
me.
. . . . .
But where is the penny world I bought
To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
From Kentish
Town and Golder’s
Green;
Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
Buried beneath some snow-deep
Over buttered scones and crumpets
Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s