He enters, and mute on the edge of a chair <br /> Sits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there, <br /> A type of decayed gentility; <br /> And by some small signs he well can guess <br /> That she comes to him almost breakfastless. <br /> "I have called -- I hope I do not err -- <br /> I am looking for a purchaser <br /> Of some score volumes of the works <br /> Of eminent divines I own, -- <br /> Left by my father -- though it irks <br /> My patience to offer them." And she smiles <br /> As if necessity were unknown; <br /> "But the truth of it is that oftenwhiles <br /> I have wished, as I am fond of art, <br /> To make my rooms a little smart, <br /> And these old books are so in the way." <br /> And lightly still she laughs to him, <br /> As if to sell were a mere gay whim, <br /> And that, to be frank, Life were indeed <br /> To her not vinegar and gall, <br /> But fresh and honey-like; and Need <br /> No household skeleton at all.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/satires-of-circumstance-in-fifteen-glimpses-viii/
