Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,In desert waste or crowded street,Perhaps before this week shall fleet,Perhaps to-morrow.I trust to find YOUR heart the seatOf wasting sorrow.
The Three Voices
First Voice
HE trilled a carol fresh and free,He laughed aloud for very glee:There came a breeze from off the sea:It passed athwart the glooming flat –It fanned his forehead as he sat –It lightly bore away his hat,All to the feet of one who stoodLike maid enchanted in a wood,Frowning as darkly as she could.With huge umbrella, lank and brown,Unerringly she pinned it down,Right through the centre of the crown.Then, with an aspect cold and grim,Regardless of its battered rim,She took it up and gave it him.A while like one in dreams he stood,Then faltered forth his gratitudeIn words just short of being rude:For it had lost its shape and shine,And it had cost him four-and-nine,And he was going out to dine."To dine!" she sneered in acid tone."To bend thy being to a boneClothed in a radiance not its own!"The tear-drop trickled to his chin:There was a meaning in her grinThat made him feel on fire within."Term it not 'radiance,'" said he:"'Tis solid nutriment to me.Dinner is Dinner: Tea is Tea."
