Is what no longer can be suffered:
Before I lose the scented host
This game, like candles, must be snuffered.
Noel, at ninety-two, not out,
Is carried to the nursery, screaming;
And later with a precious pout
Lies in his bed of down and dreaming.
There shall his Century be achieved,
Larkspurs and tiger-lilies humbled,
Geraniums of their fire bereaved,