1913] And Last Letters 415 



translations in verse are admirable. His poetry belonged to his hidden 

 life, of which I knew more than the rest of his friends. In nearly his 

 last letter to me, when writing to announce his son Percy's marriage, 

 he says : ' I write at once to you because you and one other are near 

 to me in all that really touches my life. I am determined to be your 

 guest with luck when the birds are in chorus, and in any case when the 

 wild roses bloom. You are fortunate. To select and print poetry 

 seems to me — after influenza in a dark drizzle damned to the hell 

 of politics — an inconceivable extravagance of joy. Now if this world 

 was made for joy (if it was not made our revolt should be for joy), 

 you are accomplishing the design of the great artificer; or else (if he 

 never was) helping to fill the gap of his non-existence; but I, good 

 lack! am a member of Parliament! I mean, however, to escape and 

 to get you to London to see pictures and plays, or to go to you to 

 hear the birds and see the blossoms.' And here is June and he is 

 dead!" 



