Our Magpie and Stump.
But I rave—for the past of my pleasure
Has left me a little intense,
And the lolloping lilt of my measure
Is stronger in sound than in sense.
Yet an ecstasy must have its morrow,
And an ace may succumb to a trump;
So my spirit is sunken in sorrow,
Dear Magpie and Stump.
Farewell! nevermore shall thy chalice