(Afternoon tea with Mr Browning) That's my last crumpet, there
upon the plate — But for all that, you're welcome — take it, do! And if it choke you .. . No, lam content — Let's sit and talk as we were Englishmen — AY, that's the sun, i' truth, beyond those blinds — Italy's sun bright on il Canal Grande (Mark its swift patterns on the ceiling there). All Venice is asleep and quiet as death, Save that one gondolier— you hear him? — Steers from the rio with a ghostly cry And's gone, his oar's plash slowly passing . There!
This is indeed no English afternoon, And yet we'll cheat its dog-day torpitude With tea and talk. See, in that corner there, That fine Madonna, one of old Bellini's — What's that? The crumpet? You will have it?
Grrr. . . ! (Nigel Andrew) (A picnic with the Poet Laureate) In sight of the domed mausoleum We spread out the groundsheet and rugs On speedwell, and bugle, and geum, And poured the Earl Grey into mugs.
For sandwiches Gentleman's Relish Or gooseberry jam, and a whole Applecake, while the saints that embellish The church are sustaining the soul.
We gloat on the neat cottage ornee, We argue, we ponder, we praise, Then strengthened anew for the foray We toddle off down to the maze.
(J.C.M. Hepple)
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