Dear Mr Bowles.

Victory comes late,
And is held low to
freezing lips
Too rapt with frost
To mind it!
How sweet it would
have tasted!
Just a drop!
Was God so econom-
ical?
His table′s spread
too high
Except we dine on tiptoe!

 ¦

Crumbs fit such
little mouths –
Cherries – suit Robins –
The Eagle′s golden
breakfast –
dazzles them!
God keep His vow
to ′′Sparrows′′
Who of little love –
Know how to starve!

Emily.