Poems of young loves, prematurely blighted.
I sang, as I have said: I had
That kind of voice that folks call “fluty”;
I trilled of “Memories strangely sad,”
Of “Pansies” and the “Eyes of Beauty.”
Not more divinely does the early bird
Sing when the worm has recently occurred.
At that delightful hour of gloom,
Slightly anterior to tea-time,
I paralysed the drawing-room