And so secure my Sunday clothes—and one
The later-rising hope of pawning them,
Which from my household orbit draws the suit
To go up uncle’s spout. The tradesman weeps
Thinking of that white lie I gulled him with,
His maiden, sad adventure, and his tears
Are none of pleasure, all of pain. The clothes,
All nappy as they left his shop—yes, thou
Good broadcloth, my all useful Sunday suit,
Whose presence cheers my earthly loneliness,