Dear Lady, in your dining-room
I sat, a melancholy slave.
Your smiles could hardly chase my gloom;
While others jested, I was grave.
And still you saw me sit and sit—
"Enough of this," you said, "come, come,
Be cheerful." While I merely bit
A foolish, irresponsive thumb,
And found no comfort in the act,
And cursed myself, the clumsy Goth,