Scribe, let me clasp thee, in thought, to this breast!
Holiday-hunting is Man's most mysterious,
Maddening guest!
Quixote, I swear, was a model of sanity,
When with the Holiday-seeker compared.
Fidgety folly, and fussy inanity.
These be the figments by which we are snared.
Soon as you're drawn from your own cosy drawing-room,
Far over flood, field, or foam—for your sins—
Then, when your breast makes for vulturine gnawing room,