Translator’s Dedication

To E. J. C.

Here, Summer lingering, loiter I
When I, with Summer, should be gone⁠ ⁠…
Where only London lights the sky
I go, and with me journeys “Swann”

Whose pages’ dull, laborious woof
Covers a warp of working-times,
Of firelit nights beneath your roof
And sunlit days beneath your limes,

While, both at once or each in turn,
Sharp-tongued but smooth, like buttered knives,
We pared, with studied unconcern,
The problems of our private lives;

Those tiny problems, dense yet clear
Like ivory balls by Chinese craft
Pierced (where each hole absorbed a tear)
And rounded (where the assembly laughed).

Did all our laughter muffle pain,
Our candour simulate pretence?
Fear not. I shall not come again
To tease you with indifference.

Yet I may gaze for Oakham spire
Where London suns set, watery-pale,
And dream, while tides of crimson fire
Sweep, smoking, over Catmos vale.