THE NEW UMBRELLA.
You ask me why, though ill at ease,
And chilled with rain, my gentle Stella,
I stand beneath the dripping trees,
With shivering hands and shaking knees,
But do not use my umbrella.
The reason I can soon explain,
Succinctly, simply, and precisely:
If once I used it in the rain,
I could not fold it up again,
Or roll it up so smooth and nicely.
No, precious slender staff! no hand of mine,
With ruthless hate or foolish gaming,
Shall mar thy symmetry divine—
The curved diagonal of line
That circles round thy wooden stamen.
The skill that wrapped thee up so tight
And fastened up the ring and button
Is rarer far than second-sight,
The art of catching fish at night,
Or carving any joint of mutton.
* * * *
(Two verses omitted).
The Cambridge Meteor, June 13, 1882.
"OF old sat Freedom on the heights,
The Thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet."
TENNYSON.