(On His Return From East Africa)

For you I knit these lines, and on their ends Hang little tossing bells to ring you home. The music is all cracked, and Poesy tends To richer blooms than mine; but you who roam Thro' coloured gardens of the highest muse, And leave the door ajar sometimes that we May steal small breathing things of reds and blues And things of white sucked empty by the bee, Will listen to this bunch of bells from me.

My cowslips ring you welcome to the land Your muse brings honour to in many a tongue, Not only that I long to clasp your hand, But that you're missed by poets who have sung And viewed with doubt the music of their verse All the long winter, for you love to bring The true note in and say the wise thing terse, And show what birds go lame upon a wing, And where the weeds among the flowers do spring.