 | Sonnets |  |
24
MR. ASQUITH WEPT
Rare and refreshing fruit—Oh ruddy and rare
And odorous! Behold the Tree of Cant
And vain Imaginings which we did plant
That it might spread bright branches on the air
And drop for each poor man a rich man's share,
And yield the lords of sentiment and rant
And every charlatan and recusant
The proud rewards such arborage should bear.
And odorous! Behold the Tree of Cant
And vain Imaginings which we did plant
That it might spread bright branches on the air
And drop for each poor man a rich man's share,
And yield the lords of sentiment and rant
And every charlatan and recusant
The proud rewards such arborage should bear.
How it did prosper and blossom, our tree of trees,
Like the old green bay-tree in the old script . . .
But now by frosts of Doom it hath been nipped,
And to our frightened glances it appears
Blacker than the funereal cypresses,
And we must water it with Front Bench tears.
Like the old green bay-tree in the old script . . .
But now by frosts of Doom it hath been nipped,
And to our frightened glances it appears
Blacker than the funereal cypresses,
And we must water it with Front Bench tears.
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