tl NE QUID PEREAT U 



How have I, unaware, 

 Forgetful of my strain inaugural, 



Cleft the great rondure of thy reign complete, 

 Yielding the half, who hast indeed the all? 

 I will not think thy sovereignty begun 



But with the shepherd Sun 

 That washes in the sea the stars' gold fleeces; 



Or that with Day it ceases, 

 Who sets his burning lips to the salt brine, 



And purples it to wine ; 

 While I behold how ermined Artemis 

 Ordained weed must wear, 

 And toil thy business; 

 WTio witness am of her, 

 Her too in autumn turned a vintager; 

 And, laden with its lamped clusters bright, 

 The fiery-fruited vineyard of this night. 

 FRANCIS THOMPSON. 

 A Corymbus for Autumn. 



I have a secret garden 

 Where sacred lilies lift 



White faces kind with pardon 

 To hear my shrift. 



[61] 



