(Written in the visitor's book at Gopsall)
KIND hostess mine, who raised the latch
And welcomed me beneath your thatch,
Who makes me here forget the pain,
And all the pleasures of Cockaigne,
Now, pen in hand, and pierced with woe,
I write one word before I go --
A word that dies upon my lips
While thus you kiss your finger-tips.
When Black-eyed Sue was rowed to land
That word she cried, and waved her hand --
Her lily hand!
It seems absurd,
But I can't write that dreadful word.