Oxford Poetry, 1919 :: D. L. SAYERS

D. L. SAYERS

T. W. Earp

(SOMERVILLE)

FOR PHAON

With "That Eternitie Promised by Our Ever-living Poet."

Why do you come to the poet, to the heart of iron and fire,

Seeking soft raiment and the small things of desire,

Looking for light kisses from lips bowed to sing?

Less than myself I give not, and am I a little thing?

I walk in scarlet and sendal through the dry plains of hell,

And fine gold and rubies are all I have to sell,

For I am the royal goldsmith whose goods are all of gold,

And you shall live for ever like a little tale that is told;

When kings pass and perish and the dust covers their name,

And the high, impregnable cities are only wind and flame,

The insolent new nations shall rise and read, and know

What a little, little lord you were, because I loved you so.

SYMPATHY

I sat and talked with you

In the shifting fire and gloom,

Making you answer due

In delicate speech and smooth—

Nor did I fail to note

The black curve of your head

And the golden skin of your throat

On the cushion's golden-red.

But all the while, behind,

In the workshop of my mind,

The weird weaver of doom

Was walking to and fro,

Drawing thread upon thread

With resolute fingers slow

Of the things you did not say

And thought I did not know,

Of the things you said to-day

And had said long ago,

To weave on a wondrous loom,

In dim colours enough,

A curious, stubborn stuff—

The web that we call truth.

VIALS FULL OF ODOURS

The hawthorn brave upon the green

She hath a drooping smell and sad,

But God put scent into the bean

To drive each lass unto her lad.

And woe betide the weary hour,

For my love is in Normandy,

And oh! the scent of the bean-flower

Is like a burning fire in me.

Fair fall the lusty thorn,

She hath no curses at my hand,

But would the man were never born

That sowed the bean along his land!

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