There'd come a bottle of fine liqueur
At Christmas. A gift was always the best
With a label. He thought it a very test
Of friendship. You thought a person was dear and fine
So you gave him your choicest, rarest wine!
He was at his best when the lights were high
And laughter gleamed in the dancer's eye;
He never would ask for your hand outright,
But would seek your partner, and there in sight
Would ask permission to squire you round
In a waltz; he was light as a blowing feather!
His conversation was always whether
The party was fun for you. Compliments came to his lips more swift
Than the dancing music's whirling lift.
He was no relation to us, by blood…
He was "Uncle" because of the great warm flood
Of affection. We adopted him right from the time we met…
And he's Uncle Reg in our memory yet.
And there's never a birthday or Christmas night
When the candles burn high and the eyes are bright
But a gentle whimsical courtly ghost
Sits at our table. We miss him most
Anniversary times!
"Right out of Pickwick," you would have said,
If you'd seen hire strolling along the street,
His neat small figure against the sky.
But Uncle Reg was a symbol, too
Of the way the Quality used to do
What was expected. He knew the rules
And he carried them out, to the last fine letter.
Somewhere I think his dear small ghost
Treads a gay measure … murmuring, "Most
Sweet gracious lady …" to some slim shade
Who finds him a gallant entrancing Blade!
Man is a Lonely One
Man is a lonely one.
How close he huddles to his hearth and house,
Walks quiet as a mouse
Down echoing streets… Gathers about him neighbours,
Friends,
Puts up with being bored
While endless, pointless stories
Roll from indifferent lips.
He does not like to wake
In an empty house.
His spouse is his retreat from single-ness,
His friendly bosom that will take him in
And quiet his awareness,
Lull him to comfort and insentient peace;
Build tender walls about his shivering self;
Gather within the crescent of her arms
The core of his alarms.
Man is a lonely one.
He builds himself a shelter from the night,
Turns himself inward where the lamplight falls,
Takes comfort in the stoutness of four walls.
Only when he strides out to face a gun
Suddenly… strickenly, bravely
He is one!
War breaks his shell, and spews him forth alone
Into a world most savagely his own!
This Bitter Brew