As Pomp rolls by in its gilded car;
And I sit just so—with your hand in mine,
A bottle of wine—and a good cigar.
Heed not the pestilent kill-joys’ screech
That dulls your ears to the voice of Sue!
Disdain the gospel that dour men preach
To hide the light of her eyes from you!
[178] ]Why should we sorrow, and sit supine
Or clutch the rays of some mystic star
While Love hangs near, on its drooping vine—