A Cooking Egg

 En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues.
.
.



PIPIT sate upright in her chair
Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
Lay on the table, with the knitting.


Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
Here grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
An Invitation to the Dance.

.
 .
 .
 .
 .

I shall not want Honour in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
And other heroes of that kidney.


I shall not want Capital in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.

We two shall lie together, lapt
In a five per cent.
 Exchequer Bond.


I shall not want Society in Heaven,
Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
Than Pipit’s experience could provide.


I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.

.
 .
 .
 .
 .

But where is the penny world I bought
To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;

Where are the eagles and the trumpets?

Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.

Over buttered scones and crumpets
Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.
B.
C.
’s.

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