'The tender Grace of a day that is past.' <br /> <br />The dew is on the roses, <br />The owl hath spread her wing; <br />And vocal are the noses <br />Of peasant and of king: <br />'Nature' (in short) 'reposes;' <br />But I do no such thing. <br /> <br />Pent in my lonesome study <br />Here I must sit and muse; <br />Sit till the morn grows ruddy, <br />Till, rising with the dews, <br />'Jeameses' remove the muddy <br />Spots from their masters' shoes. <br /> <br />Yet are sweet faces flinging <br />Their witchery o'er me here: <br />I hear sweet voices singing <br />A song as soft, as clear, <br />As (previously to stinging) <br />A gnat sings round one's ear. <br /> <br />Does Grace draw young Apollos <br />In blue mustachios still? <br />Does Emma tell the swallows <br />How she will pipe and trill, <br />When, some fine day, she follows <br />Those birds to the window-sill? <br /> <br />And oh! has Albert faded <br />From Grace's memory yet? <br />Albert, whose 'brow was shaded <br />By locks of glossiest jet,' <br />Whom almost any lady'd <br />Have given her eyes to get? <br /> <br />Does not her conscience smite her <br />For one who hourly pines, <br />Thinking her bright eyes brighter <br />Than any star that shines - <br />I mean of course the writer <br />Of these pathetic lines? <br /> <br />Who knows? As quoth Sir Walter, <br />'Time rolls his ceaseless course: <br />'The Grace of yore' may alter - <br />And then, I've one resource: <br />I'll invest in a bran-new halter, <br />And I'll perish without remorse.<br /><br />Charles Stuart Calverley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/voices-of-the-night-2/
