Ii

Who'd have guessed it from his lip Or his brow's accustomed bearing, On the night he thus took ship Or started landward?--little caring For us, it seems, who supped together (Friends of his too, I remember) And walked home through the merry weather, The snowiest in all December. I left his arm that night myself For what 's-his-name's, the new prose-poet Who wrote the book there, on the shelf-- How, forsooth, was I to know it If Waring meant to glide away Like a ghost at break of day? Never looked he half so gay!