Committed
Or Mr. Yeats & Mr. Logue You're committed, Mr. Logue, So you think?
Others were not, Mr. Logue? So to what, Mr. Logue, So to what?
Uncommitted Old Yeats Gets no first in Greats, Mr. Logue?
So he carried (you say) A golden word casket No good for the beggars' Almsbasket?
Now I hesitate,
And it might be a bit rude to ask it— Yet I think I see what you mean, Mr. Logue—so, do you think You see what I mean when I say That you carry a trug, Mr. Logue, Filled with dry grass and old hat, Mr. Logue—like a model Unbosomed, and flat, Mr. Logue, In tweeds, in a lane, in the Fall, In Vogue, Mr. Logue?
ii Golden Old Yeats Didn't face up to the Fates.
M r. Logue?
A matter of bombs and of dates, Mr. Logue, And late hours, And we mustn't have flowers In our hedge, Mr. Logue, As poets were wont, Mr. Logue? I agree and I don't, Mr. Logue.
It's a nettly hedge, Mr. Logue, And you've taken the pledge, Mr. Logue, And you drink Only water, I think, With just a token of ink, And some double-think, Mr. Logue, Some double-think.
GEOFFREY GRIGSON
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