Song for a High Art Hostess.
Come, rest on this gridiron, my own dear Æsthete,
Though the herd may contemn, ’tis a true High art seat;
These, these the contours that art yearns to create,
A leg that is spindly, a back that is straight.
Oh, where is the taste that is worthy the name
Loves not the stiff lines of this cast-iron frame?
I know not, I ask not if ease they impart,
I but know they are true to the canons of Art.
Do they call it all corners? they know not the bliss