The Threadbear of Needle St

10.

This little fantasy is tucked into the back of the funeral file.

The Threadbear of Needle St.

There was once a surreptitious Threadbear who lived in Needle St.

His safe home was in the basement of a Bank . The bankers did not know this .

His room was rather dark, with steel walls, but he had hung it with some smart paper he found in stacks on a shelf. It was white with a squiggly design of black and red .

The front door had a combination lock . Since the Threadbear was an unsociable but mechanically-minded animal he had changed the combination to BEAR 666 .

Sometimes a banker came to call on him. The Threadbear lay low , and after trying a few likely combinations the banker went away .

The Threadbear had no friends . He lived a peaceful life .

In his larder he kept honey , flies and embroidery silk in many pleasant colours . The blues were the tastiest but disagreed with him . He was a bilious Threadbear .

One day the Threadbear had run out of flies . He thought he would step along to the Sports Shop and buy some more .
“There’s sure to be nothing but feather kinds left” he said disconsolately as he put on his spats .

On the way he met a Wretched Being . It was carrying all the equipment of a fisherman.

“Why not take a tram to the Sports Shop ?” said the Wretched Being .

They climbed aboard the first tram that came by .

“You pay going and I’ll pay coming back,” said the Threadbear, and he thought to himself “ We won’t come back together.”

Are the later poems copied since before JP? no

The lily need not struggle to be pure

The lily need not struggle to be pure ,
Nor the rose guard her scent ;
Their beauty is by gift and must endure :
Thine is but lent .

True that each flower must die , like thee ; but know ,
Though all to dust resign ,
Somewhere the perfect rose and lily grow :
Thy life is thine .

Live then as life becomes thee : let my rhyme
Praising thee pure and sweet ,
Guide to that garden where , secure from time ,
Perfections meet .

The Widower’s Friend

The Widower’s Friend

You mourn her now ? My fate is no less hard :
I learned to love in silence . I stood by
For you — and from her love , as may I die ,
By loyalty to you alone was barred .
The Queen of Hearts next to a common card
By chance might in a game of patience lie —
What , do I startle you ? I loved her , I ,
With all the longing of my heart ill-starred .

I strained my wit and strength that she should care
For you , for you : to seventy times seven
Forgave your selfish passion ; but her rare
Half-pitying friendliness was all my heaven —
And hell , too , for my loyalty confessed
I played the traitor when I loved her best .

The Wreath

The Wreath

Summer , be silent for one hour
That I may mourn :
Where in your joyous stir
May I find words to weave a wreath for her
Who comes no more ?

There is a numbness of the heart
Beyond such words :
Though all your joys concert
They are not skilled to salve or tent the hurt
As once they were .

Words of regret , like a sweet air
In dreaming heard ,
That half-remembered here
Falsifies echo , mocks the waking ear ,
I weave for her .

No joy may lure the heart from care ,
No beauty storm:
Silence alone and sure
May quicken grief , release sweet words for cure ,
The dream restore .

[Undated; but by writing and pen it may belong in 1951]

The Retort Courteous

The Retort Courteous

Tuesday again with ghastly looks the great Olympians stand
Thrusting a red-hot bulletin from hand to trembling hand :
For Zeus himself must tremble when his satellites he sees
Recurrently admonished in such glossy journalese :
“A touch of colour at the neck will light the teeth when smiling . . .
Your parasol is passé , but your cane is too beguiling . . .
I love a cunning cummerbund ( on folk who boast the figure ) . . .
How devastating that red boots betray big feet as bigger!
A wisp of mauve chiffon , when knotted coyly round the nose
Is guaranteed to turn men’s heads wherever Madam goes . . .
Abhor the neutral anklesock , despise hardwearing tweeds . . .
Tis flair , and not a chequebook , that the soigné woman needs . . .
Distrust the overhandspme youth . . . ” ( Apollo sighs for shame )
:Make your coiffure distinctive . . . ( poor Medusa does the same . )
“Buttercup yellow robes would brighten any convocation . . .
No femme fatale dare once appear without her firm foundation . . .
‘Indeed ,” said Aphrodite when abashed Adonis read it her ,
“It is , it is a charming thing to be a fashion editor . ”

Then up rose Aphrodite and gave comfort to the rest:
“Old fashioned we may well be , but we are not overdressed :
Paris , who praised our beauty , was no easy connoisseur ,
And with the taste of Paris many mortals would concur ,
Who is this Fashion Editor ? What right has she to speak ?
What fiend possesses her to pen this piffle every week ?
I tell you , there are mortals will do much for notoriety ,
And label their acquaintance to give Sidelights on Society :
There is an ancient city , to these mites a kindly mother
Who ever praise themselves and cast aspersions on each other :
She sets no store by garments and she knows no hints on chic
And , fair to all , reserves her praise for quite another clique :
One of her children who alone for boudoir beauty thirsts
May rarely hope to swell the annual dividend of Firsts :
Yet scholars have the best of it for they shall ever find
The arrows of my little son strike don and dandy BLIND.
Heigh-ho, “ said Aphrodite, “ With whatever taste you credit her ,
It is, it is , a pretty thing to be a Fashion Editor , :

Marion G . Jones L . M . H .

Trim rigged and shipshape

Trim rigged and shipshape, sixty winters past

Trim rigged and shipshape, sixty winters past,
The lad slipped cable and stood out to sea:
With tackle torn, strained timbers, broken mast,
He weathers home at last
To that old harbourwhere he longs to be.

Seaman, hold fast your course, though waves run high,
Most pleasant moorings now for you are meant,
When in calm water under cloudless sky,
Your battered ship may lie,
Proudly at anchor, sails furled close, content.