Till the want has burned out of our brains,
Every means shall be present to state;
While we send for the napkins, the soup gets cold;
While the bonnet is trimming, the face grows old;
When we’ve matched our buttons, the pattern is sold,
And everything comes too late—too late!
“When strawberries seemed like red heavens,
Terrapin stew a wild dream,
When my brain was at sixes and sevens,
If my mother had ‘folks’ and ice-cream,