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Poem	The little pink house is high on the hill And my heart is not what it used to be; It will kick up a fuss I know, but still I must toil up that twisty trail to see What that empty old house can mean to me. For a Poet lived there for donkey's years, A Poet of parts and founded fame. He took to the bottle, it appears, And hid up there to enjoy his shame . . . Oh, no, I'll never betray his name. Then gaily he drank himself to death, But, oh, on the rarest of mellow wine; An exquisite way to end one's breath - Lachrimae Christi, I'd choose for mine, To sip and souse in the sweet sunshine. They say that poets are half divine; I question if that is always true; At least, our Poet was partly swine, Drunk each day, with a drab or two, Till Presto! he vanished from our view. Maybe he was weary of woe and sin, Or sick, and crawled like a dog to die; Where the olives end and the pines begin, He sought the peace of the sun and sky . . . He would see no one, and I wonder why? And so I must climb up, up some day And try to picture my Poet there; He sprawled on his rose-bowered porch, they say, To smoke and fuddle and dream and stare At the sapphire sea through the amber air. He gave up the ghost with none to see; In his bed, no doubt, though I'd fain surmise It was yonder under the ilex tree, Watching the sun in splendour rise, With the glory of God-light in his eyes. Well, he was a Lord of Radiant Rhyme; His gift was godlike, one can't deny, But he quit in the glory of his prime As if he despised us - I wonder why? As if he found, where yon mountains soar, Far from men-folk and heaven-high, Peace and Beauty forever more . . . Peace and Beauty - Ah! so would I.
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