To E. J. C

To E.J.C. Here, Summer lingering, loiter I When I, with Summer, should be gone... Where only London lights the sky I go, and with me journeys 'Swann'

Whose pages' dull laborious woof Covers a warp of working-time, Of firelit nights beneath your roof And sunlit days beneath the limes,

While both at once or each in turn, Sharp tongued but smooth, like buttered knifes, We pared, with studied unconcern, The problems of our private lives;

Those tiny problems, dense yet clear, Like ivory balls by Chinese craft Pierced (where each hole absorbed a tear) And rounded (where the assembly laughed).

Did all our laughter muffle pain, Our candour simulate pretence? Fear not. I shall not come again To tease you with indifference.

Yet I may gaze for Oakham spire Where London suns set, watery pale, And dream, while tides of crimson fire Sweep, smoking, over Catmos vale.