To R. D. Maclean by Leigh Gordon Giltner — Read

If words were wingèd arrows tipped with flame,

Far-flying thro' the vast of time and space,

If Erato should lend me some rare grace,

Then might I dare to breathe in song your name.

Ah, Player-king, unmoved by all renown,

Acclaim and praise that wait upon your name,

You pluck a laurel from the wreath of fame,

Then, careless of the guerdon, cast it down.