  (Written in the visitor’s book at Gopsall) KIND hostess mine, who raised the latch And welcomed me beneath your thatch, Who makes me here forget the pain, And all the pleasures of Cockaigne, Now, pen in hand, and pierced with woe, I write one word before I go— A word that dies upon my lips While thus you kiss your finger-tips. When Black-eyed Sue was rowed to land That word she cried, and waved her hand— Her lily hand! It seems absurd, But I can’t write that dreadful word. Frederick Locker-Lampson. |
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