Let him advise what lens I’d best look through.
Nero, they say, chose green; fools like rose-red.
The Imp and I may stand for sun-bright truth,
And smoke our glasses if we prove too frail.
Come hunger, then, and want, or any shame.
If Chatterton dare starve, why should not we?
We’ll travel far—though without carfare, dears,
And with shoe-soles that let in pavement slush.
But now I shall find out if dry-shod feet
Discount the wet ones. Live down the superstitions,