237 Wed

FOR these white arms about my neck—

For the dainty room, with its ordered grace—

For my snowy linen without a fleck—

For the tender charm of this uplift face—

For the softened light and the homelike air—

The low luxurious cannel fire—

The padded ease of my chosen chair—

The devoted love that discounts desire—

I sometimes think, when Twelve is struck

By the clock on the mantel, tinkling clear,

I would take—and thank the gods for the luck—

One single hour with the boys and the beer.

Where the sawdust scent of a cheap saloon

Is mingled with malt; where each man smokes,

Where they sing the street songs out of tune,

Talk Art, and bandy ephemeral jokes.

By Jove, I do! And all the time

I know not a man that is there to-night

But would barter his brains to be where I ’m—

And I ’m well aware that the beggars are right.