At this fair oak table sat <br />Whilom he our Laureate, <br />Poet, handicraftsman, sage, <br />Light of our Victorian age, <br />William Morris, whose art's plan <br />Laid its lines in ample span, <br />Wrought it, trestle board and rib, <br />With good help of Philip Webb, <br />For an altar of carouse <br />In his own home, the Red House. <br />Thirty years and five here he <br />Made good cheer and company, <br />Feasting all with more than bread. <br />Had men stored the things he said, <br />Jests profound and foolings wise, <br />Truths unliveried of lies, <br />Basenesses chastised and set <br />Like hounds slain beneath his feet, <br />Knowledge prodigally poured, <br />His best wine, at this free board; <br />Nay, if but the crumbs he shed <br />Nightly round of heart and head <br />Gleaned had we, not this good hall <br />Half the wonders might install, <br />Wit's wealth lost, which now must sleep <br />Dumb when we have ceased to weep.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-inscription-4/
