Henry Austin Dobson Poems

Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker,
Help me sing of Knickerbocker!
Boughton, had you bid me chant
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Rondeau

IN after days when grasses high
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,
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Here is this leafy place
Quiet he lies,
Cold, with his sightless face
Turn'd to the skies:
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O SINGER of the field and fold,
Theocritus! Pan’s pipe was thine,—
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
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O BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear,
Worthy of wreath and cup sincere,
To-morrow shall a kid be thine
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Melek the sultan, tired and wan,
Nodded at noon on the divan.
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DEAR COSMOPOLITAN,—I know
I should address you a Rondeau,
Or else announce what I ’ve to say
At least en Ballade fratriseé
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Charles,—for it seems you wish to know,—
You wonder what could scare me so,
And why, in this long-locked bureau,
With trembling fingers,—
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I intended an Ode,
And it turned to a Sonnet.
It began à la mode,
I intended an Ode;
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“IN teacup-times”! The style of dress
Would suit your beauty, I confess;
BELINDA-like, the patch you ’d wear;
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