Vain the learned elaborate metres,
    Vain the deeply pondered line;
  All the rest are dust and ashes
    But that little song of thine.

  The broker of dreams

  Bring not your dreams to me—­
  Blown dust, and vapour, and the running stream—­
  Saying, “He, too, doth dream,
  Touched of the moon.”

  Nay! wouldst thou vanish see
  Thy darling phantoms,
  Bring them then to me! 
  For my hard business—­though so soft it seems—­
  Was ever dreams and dreams.

  And as some stern-eyed broker smiles disdain,
  Valuing at nought
  Her bosom’s locket, with its little chain,
  Love’s all that Love hath brought;
  So must I weigh and measure
  Thy fading treasure,
  Sighing to see it go
  As surely as the snow.

  For I have such sad knowledge of all things
  That shine like dew a little, all that sings
  And ends its song in weeping—­
  Such sowing and such reaping!—­
  There is no cure but sleeping.

  IV

  At the sign of the lyre

  (To the Memory of Austin Dobson)

  Master of the lyric inn
  Where the rarer sort so long
  Drew the rein, to ’scape the din
  Of the cymbal and the gong,
  Topers of the classic bin,—­
  Oporto, sherris and tokay,
  Muscatel, and beaujolais—­
  Conning some old Book of Airs,
  Lolling in their Queen Anne chairs—­
  Catch or glee or madrigal,
  Writ for viol or virginal;
  Or from France some courtly tune,
  Gavotte, ridotto, rigadoon;
  (Watteau and the rising moon);
  Ballade, rondeau, triolet,
  Villanelle or virelay,
  Wistful of a statelier day,
  Gallant, delicate, desire: 
  Where the Sign swings of the Lyre,
  Garlands droop above the door,
  Thou, dear Master, art no more.

Lo! about thy portals throng Sorrowing shapes that loved thy song:  Taste and Elegance are there, The modish Muses of Mayfair, Wit, Distinction, Form and Style, Humour, too, with tear and smile.

  Fashion sends her butterflies—­
  Pretty laces to their eyes,
  Ladies from St. James’s there
  Step out from the sedan chair;
  Wigged and scented dandies too
  Tristely wear their sprigs of rue;
  Country squires are in the crowd,
  And little Phyllida sobs aloud.

  Then stately shades I seem to see,
  Master, to companion thee;
  Horace and Fielding here are come
  To bid thee to Elysium. 
  Last comes one all golden:  Fame
  Calls thee, Master, by thy name,
  On thy brow the laurel lays,
  Whispers low—­“In After Days.”

  TO MADAME JUMEL

  Of all the wind-blown dust of faces fair,
    Had I a god’s re-animating breath,
  Thee, like a perfumed torch in the dim air
    Lethean and the eyeless halls of death,
  Would I relume; the cresset of thine hair,
    Furiously bright, should stream across the gloom,
    And thy deep violet eyes again should bloom.