And the god of jollity hear no call,
And the prosperous broadcloth on my back
Hung over their spirits like a pall!
It was not that they failed, each one, to try
Their warmth of welcome to speak and show;
I should just have risen and said good-bye,
With a haughty look, had they served me so.
It was rather that each would seem, instead,
With not one vestige of spleen or pride,
Across a chasm of change to spread