[To the Editor of the SPECTATOR.] Sin,—The following poem was
inspired, partly by Miss Sitwell's letter expressing a well-merited contempt for those who write to say that they do not understand her poetry, partly by—or rather out of opposition to—the President of Corpus' effort to show by example how poetry ought to be written. It will be noticed that the masterpiece subjoined is—so to speak—a poetic paraphrase of Miss Sitwell's letter. Its composition cost endless agony in the attempt to avoid
THE DRYAD TO THE PROFESSOR AND OTHER CRITICS.
Brains bird-soft, owl-eyes blinded to descry Green dew sun-shed by thy—that's you I A Dryad wine-wreathed, laughter-lipped am I Goat-footed satyrs savour and pursue.
Delve in tome-clods for sense, not in my song
Loose-locked, luxuriant, that plunges and floats Amock of gods and fools, and shrills along
Wave-crests of woods, prick-earing sprites and goats.
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