2  
WHY JESUS WEPT. 
Discharged his faithful poltergeist, 
Gave up attempts to say The Name, 
Ananda Maitriya became, 
By yellow robes allured, enticed ; 
Leaving me all alone to shame 
The cunning missionary game ; 
And, by bad critics topped and sliced, 
Put the ky-bosh on Jesus Christ. 
 
I sing a tale of modern life 
(Suited for reading to my wife) 
Of how Sir Percy Percivale 
Grew from a boy into a man ; 
Well ware of every metric plan 
A bard may dream, a rhymester scrawl, 
Avoiding with deliberate “ Damn ! ” 
(Ut supra) In Memoriam ; 
For such suggestion would suffice 
To turn your blood to smoke or ice, 
Dismissing with a hearty curse 
Eunuch psychology, pimp verse. 
Moreover, lest my metre move 
From year to year in one dull groove, 
Invention, hear me !  Strange device 
Hatch from this egg a cocatrice 
Of novel style, that you who read 
The Sword of Song—(your poor, poor head !) 
Shall stand amazed (at the new note 
Flung faultless from this trembling throat)