By W—ll—m C—wp—r. <br />'Tis evening. See with its resorting throng <br />Rude Carfax teems, and waistcoats, visited <br />With too-familiar elbow, swell the curse <br />Vortiginous. The boating man returns, <br />His rawness growing with experience— <br />Strange union! and directs the optic glass <br />Not unresponsive to Jemima's charms, <br />Who wheels obdurate, in his mimic chaise <br />Perambulant, the child. The gouty cit, <br />Asthmatical, with elevated cane <br />Pursues the unregarding tram, as one <br />Who, having heard a hurdy-gurdy, girds <br />His loins and hunts the hurdy-gurdy-man, <br />Blaspheming. Now the clangorous bell proclaims <br />The Times or Chronicle, and Rauca screams <br />The latest horrid murder in the ear <br />Of nervous dons expectant of the urn <br />And mild domestic muffin. <br />To the Parks <br />Drags the slow Ladies' School, consuming time <br />In passing given points. Here glow the lamps, <br />And tea-spoons clatter to the cosy hum <br />Of scientific circles. Here resounds <br />The football-field with its discordant train, <br />The crowd that cheers but not discriminates, <br />As ever into touch the ball returns <br />And shrieks the whistle, while the game proceeds <br />With fine irregularity well worth <br />The paltry shilling.— <br />Draw the curtains close <br />While I resume the night-cap dear to all <br />Familiar with my illustrated works.<br /><br />Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/twilight-87/
