What
Brings this or that to here,
To loss, or spare
At these, my racked foundations?

Each tumbled brick, spilt
From toppled spires,
Where tired lies tell all guilt
Despairs
At the kindle lent
By night fires.

What pennants flung
From yard and mast in youth,
When grapeshot, ball, chain and truth
Spat,
Heeding not, my dear...
That frail craft
Time;
My privateer.

Years along, grey, drab and grim lipp’d
Salt taste and beard,
I would I’d waited there...
My Guinevere!

David Lewis Paget