 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
184
Strike
Of trivial tide and chance,
And dribs of circumstance,
Flourish and feint and threat,
Swords that are never wet,
Daggers which only scratch,
Springes not made to catch,
Faleshood none uttereth,
Mumblings of quick apology
For prettily hinted infamy,
And dirty hands in nice clean genteel gloves,
Sick was he unto death.
And dribs of circumstance,
Flourish and feint and threat,
Swords that are never wet,
Daggers which only scratch,
Springes not made to catch,
Faleshood none uttereth,
Mumblings of quick apology
For prettily hinted infamy,
And dirty hands in nice clean genteel gloves,
Sick was he unto death.
Dear knows,
He hath seen his share
Of fribbles and fret
And seeming overthrows;
Hence sayeth he this prayer
To men and destiny:
Let me be stricken fair
With infallacious blows.
He hath seen his share
Of fribbles and fret
And seeming overthrows;
Hence sayeth he this prayer
To men and destiny:
Let me be stricken fair
With infallacious blows.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |