THREE POEMS.

THESE poems are taken from an album of copies from Keats's Poems by Richard Woodhouse. They were printed in "The Times" Literary Supplement of the 17th of April, 1914, and are included in this edition by the courtesy of the Marquess of Crewe, the owner of the Woodhouse album.

APOLLO TO THE GRACES.

Written to the tune of the air in "Don Giovanni."

Apollo.

HICH of the fairest three

To-day will ride with me?

My steeds are all pawing at the threshold of morn:

Which of the fairest three

To-day will ride with me

Across the gold Autumn's whole Kingdom of corn?

The Graces all answer

I will, I—I—I—

O young Apollo let me fly along with thee
I will-I, I, I,

The many many wonders see

I—I—I—I—

And thy lyre shall never have a slackened string

I, I, I, I,

Thro' the golden day will sing.

YOU SAY YOU LOVE.

OU say you love; but with a voice
Chaster than a nun's, who singeth

The soft Vespers to herself

While the chime-bell ringeth-
O love me truly!

You say you love; but with a smile
Cold as sunrise in September,
As you were Saint Cupid's nun,
And kept his weeks of Ember.
O love me truly!

You say you love, but then your lips
Coral tinted teach no blisses,

More than coral in the sea

They never pout for kisses—
O love me truly!

You say you love; but then your hand
No soft squeeze for squeeze returneth,
It is like a statue's dead-

While mine to passion burneth-
O love me truly!

O breathe a word or two of fire!

Smile, as if those words should burn me,

Squeeze as lovers should-O kiss

And in thy heart inurn me!

O love me truly!

N short, convince you that however wise
You may have grown from Convent
libraries,

I have, by many yards at least, been
carding

A longer skein of wit in Convent garden.

Bernardine.

A very Eden that same place must be!

Pray what demesne? Whose Lordship's legacy?
What have you convents in that Gothic Isle?
Pray pardon me, I cannot help but smile.

TH

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21s

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Castle Builder.

Sir, Convent Garden is a monstrous beast,
From morning, four o'clock, to twelve at noon,
It swallows cabbages without a spoon,

And then, from 12 till two, this Eden made is
A promenade for cooks and ancient ladies;
And then for supper, 'stead of soup and poaches,
It swallows chairmen, damns, and Hackney coaches.
In short, Sir, 'tis a very place for monks,
For it containeth twenty thousand punks,
Which any man may number for his sport,
By following fat elbows up a court.

In such like nonsense would I pass an hour
With random Friar, or Rake upon his tour,
Or one of few of that imperial host

Who came unmaimed from the Russian frost.

Cat

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To

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An

TWO SONNETS.

THESE two sonnets were written by Keats on the page immediately preceding the Sonnets in a copy of the 1817 edition of his poems, published by C. and J. Ollier. They were printed in "The Times" Literary Supplement of the 21st of May, 1914, and are included in this edition by the courtesy of Dr. E. Horner, the owner of the volume.

ON RECEIVING A LAUREL CROWN
FROM LEIGH HUNT.

INUTES are flying swiftly, and as yet Nothing unearthly has enticed my brain

Into a delphic labyrinth-I would

fain

Catch an immortal thought to pay the debt
I owe to the kind poet who has set

Upon my ambitious head a glorious gain.
Two bending laurel sprigs-'tis nearly pain

To be conscious of such a coronet.

Still time is fleeting, and no dream arises

Gorgeous as I would have it—only I see
A trampling down of what the world most prizes
Turbans and crowns and blank regality;

And then I run into most wild surmises

Of all the many glories that may be.

S

TO THE LADIES WHO SAW ME CROWN'D.

HAT is there in the universal earth

W

More lovely than a wreath from the bay tree?

Haply a halo round the moon-a glee Circling from three sweet pair of lips in mirth; And haply you will say the dewy birth

Of morning roses-riplings tenderly

Spread by the halcyon's breast upon the seaBut these comparisons are nothing worth. Then is there nothing in the world so fair?

The silvery tears of April? Youth of May? Or June that breathes out life for butterflies? No-none of these can from my favorite bear Away the palm-yet shall it ever pay

Due reverence to your most sovereign eyes.

CHISWICK PRESS: PRINTED BY CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.

TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.