Of wayward morns, and never utterable
Joys of the evenglome, beneath the moon!
Cool be thy food, O gourmand, runs the Rune:
Pigeon and quail are suited to the table;
Anchovy and sardine are noticeable;
Red mullet, first of fish, is prime in June.
Richmond and Greenwich tempt the Londoner
To dine where Thames is cool, and whitebait crisp,
And soft the manners are and lax the morals.
But I (when twilight’s breezes softly stir,