FAERY GOLD
(TO MRS. PERCY DEARMER)
A poet hungered, as well he might--
Not a morsel since yesternight!
And sad he grew--good reason why--
For the poet had nought wherewith to buy.
'Are not two sparrows sold,' he cried,
'Sold for a farthing? and,' he sighed,
As he pushed his morning post away,
'Are not two sonnets more than they?'
Yet store of gold, great store had he,--
Of the gold that is known as 'faery.'
He had the gold of his burning dreams,
He had his golden rhymes--in reams,
He had the strings of his golden lyre,
And his own was that golden west on fire.
But the poet knew his world too well
To dream that such would buy or sell.
He had his poets, 'pure gold,' he said,
But the man at the bookstall shook his head,
And offered a grudging half-a-crown
For the five the poet had brought him down.
Ah, what a world we are in! we sigh,
Where a lunch costs more than a Keats can buy,
And even Shakespeare's hallowed line
Falls short of the requisite sum to dine.
Yet other gold had the poet got,
For see from that grey-blue Gouda pot
Three golden tulips spouting flame--
From his love, from his love, this morn, they came.
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