Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine:
Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci.
Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell,
Alone, and idly loitering?
The season’s o’er—at operas
No “stars” now sing.
Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell,
So moody! in the dumps so down?