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Poem	Who put that crease in your soul, Davies, ready this fine morning For the staid chapel, where the Book's frown Sobers the sunlight? Who taught you to pray And scheme at once, your eyes turning Skyward, while your swift mind weighs Your heifer's chances in the next town's Fair on Thursday? Are your heart's coals Kindled for God, or is the burning Of your lean cheeks because you sit Too near that girl's smouldering gaze? Tell me, Davies, for the faint breeze From heaven freshens and I roll in it, Who taught you your deft poise?
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