ON THE HURRY OF THIS TIME
With slower pen men used to write,
Of old, when "letters" were "polite";
In Anna's or in George's days,
They could afford to turn a phrase,
Or trim a struggling theme aright.
They knew not steam; electric light
Not yet had dazed their calmer sight;—
They meted out both blame and praise
With slower pen.
Too swiftly now the Hours take flight!
What's read at morn is dead at night:
Scant space have we for Art's delays,
Whose breathless thought so briefly stays,
We may not work—ah! would we might!—
With slower pen.
Austin Dobson [1840-1921]
"GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE!"
Si vieillesse pouvait!—
Scene.—A small neat Room. In a high Voltaire Chair
sits a white-haired old Gentleman.
Monsieur Vieuxbois Babette