An epistle to Peggy. Christmas 1938

Come, sylvan Muse, that dwell'st among the Downs
Far from the fretful Fever of the Towns,
Come, strike the Strings of my long-silent Lute
And bring sweet sounds from what has erst been mute.
To Peggy now I dedicate my Lay,
For Peggy now I wear the Poet's Bay:
Receive this little Off'ring of my Lyre,
This trifling Pledge of fond Affection's Fire.

Now has the wint'ry Season once again
Brought chill Discomfort to the shiv'ring Plain.
With snow-clogg'd Boots the lumbering Rustick goes
To seek his Fireside, there to rest and doze—
Ah, happy he, though humble be his Cot,
We, chilled and harass'd, envy him his Lot.
On every side the eager Plumbers race
With roaring Blow-lamps frozen Pipes to trace,
While biting Winds sweep through the empty House
And hamm'ring Carpenters the Ecchoes rouse.
Books in their hundreds, household Gear in stacks
We take from Room to Room with aching Backs:
Nursing the Hope that by the Spring at least
Our and the Builders' Labours shall have ceas'd.
But when the genial Time of lengthening Days
Returns to win our universal Praise,
Then, Peggy (so the Poet dearly hopes)
May you with growing Pleasure roam these Slopes,
Seek the shy Primrose in sequester'd Glades
And later, seek the same Wood's grateful Shades,
When the fierce blaze of Phoebus' fiery Car
Is eccho'd nightly by the Cynick Star.
Or may you canter briskly on your Mount
By purling Streamlet or pellucid Fount,
Through that great Forest Norman Kings of old
Decreed a hunting Ground for Barons bold.
Or may you wander o'er those Desarts wild
Of Downland, by Antiquity beguil'd—
Seeking the Bronze Age Ditch, the Celtic Fort
Or Barrows of the elongated sort.
Whate'er befall, may it be all Delight
May Fortune wing her most propitious Flight:
May all the Gods of Gladness, Mirth and Joy
Shower down on you their Gold without Alloy.
Let Rockbourne for the New Jerus'lem stand
And Cranborne Chase become your Promis'd Land.

Stuart 24.xii.38