“An infusion of leaves from far Cathay,
Leaves of the alder, and leaves of the bay,
With a twang, and full flavoured, just as it should be,
And I think that there may be some leaves of the tea.”
“What is that, mother, so coldly blue,
Like a wintry sky of azure hue?”
“That is milk of the city, that mixture, my dear,
The milk of the chalk-pit and pump that is near,
That would not be owned by a sensible cow,