As a sphynx-moth with shivering wings
Hangs over the thyme in the garden
But an instant, then fairyward brings
The honey he gathers for guerdon;<br><br>
So you the oases of life
Just touched with your frayed, rapid wings,
Poor poet, and drew from the strife
The peculiar honey that clings<br><br>
To your magical measures and ways,
As they sway with the moods of the soul,
Semi-conscious, through haze, in amaze,
Making on toward a dim distant goal.<br><br>
"Be always a poet or saint"—
Poor Lilian was saint and was poet,
But not always for sometimes we faint—
Then he must forget that we know it;<br><br>
In iris and opal forget—
His iris, his bow in the sky,
Fickle bow for the storm, and that yet
Was his only storm-bow to steer by.<br><br>
Good-bye, then, poor poet, good-bye!
You will not be long there alone:
Very soon for your help we shall cry,
Lost souls in a country unknown.