For my snowy linen without a fleck—

For the tender charm of this uplift face—

For the softened light and the homelike air—

The low, luxurious cannel fire—

The padded ease of my chosen chair—

The devoted love that discounts desire—

I sometimes think, when twelve is struck

By the clock on the mantel, tinkling clear,

I would take—and thank the gods for the luck—

One single hour with the boys and the beer,