My Old Arm Chair.
I loathe it, I loathe it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loathing my own arm-chair?
It haunts me daily, and wheels its flight
Into the dreams that I dream by night.
When I look at its cover of outworn chintz,
Where age and washing have blurred the tints,
No earthly passion can well compare
With my deadly hate for that old arm-chair.
I loved with a love of the noblest kind;—