TO MY COLD.
Lord of the rheumy eyes and blowing nose,
On whom no fostering sun has ever shone,
What mak'st thou here? Didst thou in sooth believe
Thy presence would be welcome? Hast thou come
Thinking to please me—me who, not at all
Wanting to catch, have caught thee full and fair,
And, loth to get, have got thee none the less?
Why couldst thou not in thine own realms have stayed?
Thou mightst have found—I can't go on like this;