We think tenderly of tea,
Till our hearts are crushed with longing
Round our steaming cups to be.
(It is only green in mem’ry,
And at times—’twixt you and me—
A malignant grocer sends us
An inferior bohea.)
In the gloaming, O my darlings,
When our hearts are sinking low,
When our mouths are wide with yawning,