COLLECTED POEMS
For letting us believe that we were not
The least and idlest of His handiwork.
So Plunket, who had knowledge of all sorts,
Yet hardly ever spoke, began to plink
tu, Palermo! quaintly, with his nails,
On Morgan's fiddle, and at once got seized,
As if he were some small thing, by the neck.
Then the consummate Morgan, having told
Explicitly what hardship might accrue
To Plunket if he did that any more,
Made roaring chords and acrobatic runs
And then, with his kind eyes on Killigrew,
Struck up the schoolgirls' march in Lohengrin,
So Killigrew might smile and stretch himself
And have to light his pipe. When that was done
We knew that Morgan, by the looks of him,
Was in the mood for almost anything
From Bach to Offenbach; and of all times
That he has ever played, that one somehow
That evening of the day the Captain died
Stands out like one great verse of a good song,
One strain that sings itself beyond the rest
For magic and a glamour that it has.
The ways have scattered for us, and all things
Have changed; and we have wisdom, I doubt not,
More fit for the world's work than we had then;
But neither parted roads nor cent per cent
May starve quite out the child that lives in us
The Child that is the Man, the Mystery,
The Phoenix of the World. So, now and then,
That evening of the day the Captain died
Returns to us; and there comes always with it
The storm, the warm restraint, the fellowship,
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