THE SILVER LINING.
hen poets sing of lovers’ woes,
And blighted lives and throbs and throes
And yearnings—goodness only knows
It’s all a pose.
I am a poet too, you know,
I too was young once long ago,
And wrote such stuff myself, and so
I ought to know.
hen poets sing of lovers’ woes,
And blighted lives and throbs and throes
And yearnings—goodness only knows
It’s all a pose.
I am a poet too, you know,
I too was young once long ago,
And wrote such stuff myself, and so
I ought to know.
I too found refuge from Despair
In sonnets to Amanda’s fair
White brow or Nell’s complexion rare
Or Titian hair—
Which, when she scorned, did I resign
To flames, and go into decline?
Not much! When sonnets fetched per line
Enough to dine.
So, reader, when you read in print
A poet’s woe—beware and stint
Your tears—and take this gentle hint
It is his mint.
When Julia’s “fair as flowery mead,”
Or when she “makes his heart-strings bleed,”
Know then she’s furnishing his feed
Or fragrant weed—
And even as you read—who knows?
Like cannibal that eats his foes,
He dines off Julia’s “heart that froze,”
Or “cheek of Rose.”
