⁠"Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two,
⁠And ten is the number of Muses;
⁠For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you, —
⁠My dear little Molly Trefusis!"

So he wrote, the old bard of an "old magazine;"
⁠As a study it not without use is,
If we wonder a moment who she may have been,
⁠This same "little Molly Trefusis"!

She was Cornish. We know that at once by the "Tre;"
Then of guessing it scarce an abuse is
If we say that where Bude bellows back to the sea
⁠Was the birthplace of Molly Trefusis.

And she lived in the era of patches and bows,
⁠Not knowing what rouge and ceruse is;
For they needed (I hope) but her natural rose,
⁠The lilies of Molly Trefusis.

And I somehow connect her (I frankly admit
⁠That the evidence hard to produce is)
With Bath in its heyday of fashion and wit, —
⁠This dangerous Molly Trefusis.

I fancy her, radiant in ribbon and knot
⁠(How charming that old-fashioned puce is!),
All blooming in laces, fallals and what not,
⁠At the Pump Room, — Miss Molly Trefusis.

I fancy her reigning, — a beauty, — a toast,
⁠Where Bladud's medicinal cruse is;
And we know that at least of one bard it could boast, —
⁠The court of Queen Molly Trefusis.

He says she was "Venus." I doubt it.
⁠Beside (Your rhymer so hopelessly loose is!)
His "little" could scarce be to Venus applied,
⁠If fitly to Molly Trefusis.

No, no. It was Hebe he had in his mind;
⁠And fresh as the handmaid of Zeus is,
And rosy, and rounded, and dimpled, — you'll find, —
⁠Was certainly Molly Trefusis!

Then he calls her "a Muse." To the charge I reply
⁠That we all of us know what a Muse is;
It is something too awful, — too acid, — too dry, —
⁠For sunny-eyed Molly Trefusis.

But "a Grace." There I grant he was probably right
⁠(The rest but a verse-making ruse is);
It was all that was graceful, — intangible, — light,
⁠The beauty of Molly Trefusis!

Was she wooed? Who can hesitate much about that
⁠Assuredly somewhat obtuse is;
For how could the poet have written so pat
⁠"My dear little Molly Trefusis!"

And was wed? That I think we must plainly infer,
⁠Since of suitors the common excuse is
To take to them wives. So it happened to her,
⁠Of course, — "little Molly Trefusis."

To the Bard? 'Tis unlikely. Apollo, you see,
⁠In practical matters a goose is;
'Twas a knight of the shire, and a hunting J. P.,
⁠Who carried off Molly Trefusis!

And you’ll find, I conclude, in the Gentleman's Mag.,
⁠At the end, where the pick of the news is,
"On the (blank), at 'the Bath,' to Sir Hilary Brag,
⁠With a fortune, Miss Molly Trefusis."

Thereupon … But no farther the student may pry:
⁠Love's temple is dark as Eleusis;
So here, at the threshold, we part, you and I,
⁠From "dear little Molly Trefusis."

Almighty God, who gives us grace,
⁠With lifted heart and bended knee,
In one accord of time and place
⁠To make our common prayer to thee,

And promises to grant the prayer
⁠That lips and heart united frame,
When two or three are kneeling there,
⁠Gather'd together in thy name,

Fulfil, O God, their wishes now,
⁠Grant their petitions upward sent;
But only in the way that thou
⁠Knowest to be expedient.

Give us the knowledge of thy truth,
⁠As much as in this world may be;
And in the next undying youth
⁠And everlasting life with thee.