SUNDAY NIGHT
Two grave brown eyes, severely bent
Upon a memorandum book—
A hopeful and a pensive look;
With stubs for varying amounts—
Is busy balancing accounts.
She, all engrossed, the audit scans—
The while she calculates and plans;
Upon her forehead gathers now—
Beget that shadow on her brow?
A murrain on the tradesman churl
Who caused this fair accountant's gloom!
Arose and swiftly left the room.
I thrust some bills of small amounts—
And smile again at her accounts!
Ah, does the butcher—heartless clown—
Beget that shadow on her brow?