An Afterthought

You found my life, a poor lame bird That had no heart to sing, You would not speak the magic word To give it voice and wing.

Yet sometimes, dreaming of that hour, I think, if you had known How much my life was in your power, It might have sung and flown.

TO J. R.

Last Sunday night I read the saddening story Of the unanswered love of fair Elaine, The 'faith unfaithful' and the joyless glory Of Lancelot, 'groaning in remorseful pain.'

I thought of all those nights in wintry weather, Those Sunday nights that seem not long ago, When we two read our Poet's words together, Till summer warmth within our hearts did glow.

Ah, when shall we renew that bygone pleasure, Sit down together at our Merlin's feet, Drink from one cup the overflowing measure, And find, in sharing it, the draught more sweet?

That time perchance is far, beyond divining. Till then we drain the 'magic cup' apart; Yet not apart, for hope and memory twining Smile upon each, uniting heart to heart.