Last scene of all. Blear-eyed, with shrivelled neck,
Laid by, for Death to claim, upon the shelf;
A fretful, peevish, crabbed, and cross-grained wreck,
Loving but one thing, and that one thing—self.
So wags the world! From life’s first blush of light,
Through happy morning to bright afternoon,
Till falling shades of evening lead to night—
And love?—The last is self, the first the moon!
Judy, January 19, 1881.
——:o:——