To Thomas Archer Hirst¹

Doggrel²

Dear Tom, the sky is gray

Today:

And like a vapour dense and dull

Something within my scull

Weighs heavily upon my aching brain. – –

Would that the mind could rain!

And thus discharge in one full shower the weight

Which cumbers me of late.

Would that thou hadst a horse

To bound o’er grass and gorse

And make a breeze, though none should stir in heaven.

I’d start before eleven

Next Sunday with the bridle in my hand,

And gallop o’er the land.

The wind should stir the hair

Around my temples fair

And the bright crimson to my pale cheek bring

All maids should long to kiss so fair a thing.

And then the whisker’s spare

Sublime appendix! which thou canst but scan

On cheeks like mine,

Denied alas! To Debus’s and thine

Or half ashamed to be espied

Pays Haas a furtive visit at one side!

finis.

RI MS JT/1/HTYP/324

LT Typescript Only