You say my verse is strangely sad;
So serious that e’en the strain
You can detect, as on the pane
You know the patter in the night,
Although the cloud is hid from sight.
You asked me once to change my tone,
“To trim my pen for gayer verse,”
And, laughing, said ’twas like a moan
That followed close behind a hearse.
My muse was saddened at the stroke,