At Brookside Manor

On Christmas Day I helped to widen a circle
At Brookside Manor.
I found mine host, the Master of the Manor,
To be a damn fool;
And therefore immediately liked him.
Who but a damn fool would invite a poet
To dine with him on Christmas Day
When any one of five score wealthy men
Would have accepted with joy the invitation?
Who but a damn fool, in this west land,
Would waste good money on wall paper
With a smoking tint.
Or sacrifice a precious hour
In study of the harmony of colors in a room?
Who but a vagabond of reason
Would translate to me
The music of a stream
That kept the lyric note of life alive
Beneath a casement of his dwelling place.

Women speak their endearments in soft phrases:
Weak men say affectionate things.
When I call a man a damn fool
My praise is noted of the gods.
Shakespeare was a damn fool;
Newton another.
And I'm trying as hard as Hell
To be one myself.
So, gentle Master of Brookside Manor,
Crave no praise higher than this,
Spoken of you by Wilson MacDonald, the poet:
" He was a damn fool;
And God loved him for it. "
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