For ever darkens Goethe’s eyes;
Till sweet girls’ glances from their books
Shall steal towards me as they sigh,
“How intellectual he looks
And yet how wistful! and his eye
Has that vain look of baffled prayer.”
And then when church is o’er, I’ll run
Comb misery into my hair,
And go and get my portrait done!
W. H. M.