You made our older poets jealous,
For you alone could sing.

In truth it was your splendid praises
Which made us wake
To glories hidden in the phrases
Of William Blake.

No boy who sows his metric salads
His tamer oats,
But always steals from Swinburne's ballads
The stronger notes.

'Do you play golf?' said Mr. Swinburne, handing me two little spheres
such as are used in the royal game. And I heard no more; for I received
a blow--whether delivered by Mr. Swinburne or the ungrateful Theodormon I
do not know, but I found myself falling down the gulf of oblivion, and
suddenly, with a dull thud, I landed on the remains of Howlglass. The
softness of his head had really preserved me from what might have been a
severe shock, because the distance from Parnassus to Fleet Street, as you
know, is considerable, and the escalade might have been more serious. I
reached my rooms in Half Moon Street, however, having seen only one star,
with just a faint nostalgia for the realms into which for one brief day I
was privileged to peep.

(1906.)