46 
THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. 
 
 
 
 
“ La cour d’appel de la volonté de l’homme— 
C’est le ventre ! ”—Old proverb. 
 
The worst of meals is that we have to meet. 
 They trick my purpose and evade my will, 
 Remind my conscience that I love her still, 
And pull my spirit from its lofty seat. 
For I withdraw myself :  my stealthy feet 
 Seek half-ashamed the alembic which I fill 
 To the epic-mark—one sonnet to distil, 
In this poor miracle—my love to cheat. 
 
Dinner clangs cheerily from my lady’s gong. 
A man must eat in intervals of song ! 
 Swift feet run back to hide my hate of her. 
And then—that hate flies truant, as my thought 
Rests (surely it beseems the overwrought) 
 And I am left her slave and minister.