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Tea with a mystic
The winter sun is setting behind the Cotswold hills,
The stark grey mansion stiffens in its winding-sheet of fog,
Where Mrs Maltwood graciously the rattling tea-cups fills,
Proffers us cakes, smiles nervously and reprimands the dog.
From lamps of Indian brassware a fitful glimmer falls
On deep-piled Persian carpets, on Chinese-pictured walls—
The Magic of the Orient to Mrs Maltwood calls.
Osiris carved in basalt catches a ray of light,
An alabaster Isis smiles from a dim recess;
The Wisdom of the Ages, the Mystics' Inner Sight
Are hers: to her the ancients their mysteries confess.
The air is full of nonsense, and the rationalist must quail
Before this talk where centaurs prance in Glastonbury's vale
And constellations leave the skies to deck the Holy Graal.
For her no chill or hunger the bitter winter brings,
The fate of Spain and China she leaves to Nature's law—
Thanks to Mr Maltwood's cornering a lot of food and things
And selling them for handsome sums when Europe was at war.
For her across the Mendips his club Orion wields,
And gilt-horned Taurus paws the turf of Somersetshire fields,
And over all the Milky Way its bounteous increase yields.
Stuart Piggott ⋜1937
NOTES
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