THE FOOD OF LOVE.
A LYRIC OF MEATLESS DAYS.
Eat to me only with thine eyes
And I will munch with mine;
Or let my lips but brush thy locks
And I shall seem to dine;
The hollow 'neath my belt that lies
For flesh of beeves doth pine;
Yet, might I wolf a roasted ox,
I would, of course, decline.
I sent thee once a juicy steak
To prove thy troth and see
If in that stern ordeal's test
Stedfast thou still wouldst be;
And thou thereof one sniff didst take
And post it back to me,
Since when I wear it next my chest,
Potted, for love of thee.
O.S.