Upon the work of Walter Landor
I am unfit to write with candor.
If you can read it, well and good;
But as for me, I never could.

There is a wildness still in England that will not feed
In cages; it shrinks away from the touch of the trainer's hand,
Easy to ****, not easy to tame. It will never breed
In a zoo for the public pleasure. It will not be planned.

Do not blame us too much if we that are hedgerow folk
Cannot swell the rejoicings at this new world you make -
We, hedge-hogged as Johnson or Borrow, strange to the yoke
As Landor, surly as Cobbett (that badger), birdlike as Blake.

A new scent troubles the air -- to you, friendly perhaps
But we with animal wisdom have understood that smell.
To all our kind its message is Guns, Ferrets, and Traps,
And a Ministry gassing the little holes in which we dwell.

WHAT woman hugs her infant there?
Another star has shot an ear.

What made the drapery glisten so?
Not a man but Delacroix.

What made the ceiling waterproof?
Landor's tarpaulin on the roof

What brushes fly and moth aside?
Irving and his plume of pride.

What hurries out the knaye and dolt?
Talma and his thunderbolt.

Why is the woman terror-struck?
Can there be mercy in that look?

DEAR fellow-artist, why so free
With every sort of company,
With every Jack and Jill?
Choose your companions from the best;
Who draws a bucket with the rest
Soon topples down the hill.
You may, that mirror for a school,
Be passionate, not bountiful
As common beauties may,
Who were not born to keep in trim
With old Ezekiel's cherubim
But those of Beauvarlet.
I know what wages beauty gives,
How hard a life her setvant lives,
Yet praise the winters gone:
There is not a fool can call me friend,
And I may dine at journey's end
With Landor and with Donne.

Rustic memoirs
decompress under
the kokoros era of ink's
fluid vibrant black belt disciple
submerged to the holy ground bridges
        where growethst the tiniest green lively tapestries caressing the      impeccable coordination of wilted rugs preparing to take off into  the open wide swoon for there's a landor on your lawn, a timber tale lotus blossoming towards the black and blue hues minglin frequency wavered jade bidis becoming the one
swarowski bidi on the rampage of
our wildest years yearning*

*   colours   fading   into     the    righthearted     unity   of    a     remorsed     graceful    residence  unfolding    the rocket      reggae    vibes   happily    again

To Poets -- By Walter savege Landor[1775-1864]
My children!Speak ill of one another;
I do not ask you not to hate;
Cadets must envy every elder brother,
The little poet must the great.