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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - An Inscription
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At this fair oak table sat
 Whilom he our Laureate,
 Poet, handicraftsman, sage,
 Light of our Victorian age,
 William Morris, whose art`s plan
 Laid its lines in ample span,
 Wrought it, trestle board and rib,
 With good help of Philip Webb,
 For an altar of carouse
 In his own home, the Red House.
 Thirty years and five here he
 Made good cheer and company,
 Feasting all with more than bread.
 Had men stored the things he said,
 Jests profound and foolings wise,
 Truths unliveried of lies,
 Basenesses chastised and set
 Like hounds slain beneath his feet,
 Knowledge prodigally poured,
 His best wine, at this free board;
 Nay, if but the crumbs he shed
 Nightly round of heart and head
 Gleaned had we, not this good hall
 Half the wonders might install,
 Wit`s wealth lost, which now must sleep
 Dumb when we have ceased to weep.
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