E. H. W. MEYERSTEIN

How curiously this triple whole Of skin and blood and bone Consenteth to the mind's control And to the mind's alone. 'Tis for diurnal uses mine, To move howe'er I please, Or mingle with its brothers nine Enclasped about my knees. Yet often when the mind's afar, By vagrant thought bestirred, It gaily shifts and beats the bar To songs and sounds unheard. Mute eloquence! 'Tis plain to see As face in looking-glass That more than one is lord of me When this is brought to pass. What else but mind and mind alone Should rule the triple whole, But how if skin and blood and bone Themselves enshroud a soul?

Sir, you're from Oxford, seat of bliss Arrived in the Metropolis; We hold you well and think we can Make you, in your despite, a man. 'Tis here our wont, though strange it seems, To deal in solid facts, not dreams; For lies are lies, and gold is gold, And men are daily bought or sold. Parade the purlieus if you wish To study poor-law and fried fish; There's much that waits to be improved, And an improver's rarely loved. Or yours is the creative touch; We have a score of shops for such, Where novelties in paint and words Are scrutinized by lonely herds. Colour and motion are aglow In streets above and tubes below. We energize: to meditate Only befits a culture-state. Such friends we'll give you as will prove The world is only made of love; But life is necessary too, And vices, seeing you are you. For in this pantomimic scene There's nothing common or unclean; You lodge upon the second floor And opposite a noted whore. So, when your dreams are laid to rest, You're part of what you most detest, And know this nightmare was made real To dissipate a false ideal.