Not a Match.
Kitty, sweet and seventeen,
Pulls my hair and calls me "Harry";
Hints that I am young and green,
Wonders if I wish to marry.
Only tell me what reply
Is the best reply for Kitty?
She's but seventeen, and I—
I am forty,—more's the pity!
Twice at least my Kitty's age
(Just a trifle over, maybe),
I am sober, I am sage,
Kitty nothing but a baby.
She is merriment and mirth,
I am wise and gravely witty;
She's the dearest thing on earth,
I am forty,—more 's the pity!
She adores my pretty rhymes,
Calls me "poet" when I write them;
And she listens oftentimes
Half an hour when I recite them.
Let me scribble by the page
Sonnet, ode, or lover's ditty;
Seventeen is Kitty's age,
I am forty,—more's the pity!
