[pg 11] If there be one among the Muses nine Loves not so much Completion as the Will, And less the austere saint than the fond sinner: Loves scanty ruins, garlanded with years, Better than lofty palaces entire: To her I dedicate this spoilÉd sheaf Of rime that scarcely came to harvesting. There is a window here in Magdalen Composite, methinks, of fragments that stark Mars Has scattered. Even so my verses be Composite of memories and half-uttered dreams Welded together sans due ordinance, Which might have been far other, but that Mars Scattered and harried them with his ruthless flail. [pg 13] |