An Inscription

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.