What sounds, what scents, what visions of delight!
How—to the bluest Blue Hungarian band—
Youth whirls away the unreturning night!
How—perfumed as the blooms of Samarcand—
The dying flow’rets whisper, “Carlton White!”
But, oh! to weary war-time ration-hunters,
How like a dream, this stand-up supper—Gunter’s!
For here, in reach of every slender hand which is
Scarce languidly outstretched to porcelain plate,
Are dainties drawn from each vale, stream, or strand which is