To Wilfrid And Alice Meynell

IF the rose in meek duty

May dedicate humbly

To her grower the beauty

Wherewith she is comely;

If the mine to the miner

The jewels that pined in it;

Earth to diviner

The springs he divined in it;

To the grapes the wine-pitcher

Their juice that was crushed in it;

Viol to its witcher

The music lay hushed in it;

If the lips may pay Gladness

In laughters she wakened,

And the heart to its sadness

Weeping unslakened;

If the hid and sealed coffer

Whose having not his is,

To the loosers may proffer

Their finding-here this is;

Their lives if all livers

To the Life of all living,-

To you, O dear givers,

I give your own giving!

To Coventry Patmore

LO, my book thinks to look Time's leaguer do

Under the banner of your spread renown!

Or if these levies of impuissant rhyme

Fall to the overthrow of assaulting Time,

Yet this one page shall fend oblivious shame,

Armed with your crested and prevailing Name.