To Rhoda

O Roneo, Roneo, wherefore art thou Roneo?
(See Juliet) in whose name machines were taken,
Not to one bottom trusted (see Antonio;
You know perhaps my appetite for Bacon)
My thoughts pursue you and your wild valises
Envying your Roneos when they did their bunks;
But me, alas, you could not take to pieces
Or pack me into half a hundred trunks.

A rose would smell as sweet (more Bacon, please)
Losing its name by the Lutetian flood
Your name that is the golden rose of Greece
And the dark rose of Ireland in your blood
And the sealed roses of this English garden
That knew you and remember; send you mirth
Who at the outpost where the high wills harden
An exile, wait the cleansing of the earth.
No trumpet but the telephonic tinkle
Keeps us (or some of us) upon the run
Far flash the red artilleries—though Winkle
Seems to suppose he is a Maxim gun.
I, waiting too the trumpet of the advance,
Here where you sat beside a beechwood fire
For Ireland and for England and for France
Pledge you deliverance and the world's desire.
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