To George Bernard Shaw

No slave at least art thou, on this dull Day
When slaves and knaves throng in Life's banquet-hall! . . .

Who listens to thy scornful laugh must say
'Wormwood, tho' bitter, is medicinal! '

Because thou turnest from our Feast of Lies
Where prosperous priests with whores and warriors feed,

Because thy Jester's mask hides loving eyes,
I name thee here, and bid thy work ' God speed! '