For Friendship sounds too cold,
While Love is now a worldly flame
Whose shrine must be of gold;
And passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o’er all he sees,
Awhile as warm, will set as soon—
Then, call it none of these.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
This poem was chosen as the original for a parody competition in the Weekly Dispatch, and the following specimens were published in that newspaper on February 21, 1886.