TEA.

TEA.

My eyes sleep-laden, on the dial did fix,

When clock said seven, I said six,

I peered around with sleepy looks,

As the sun began to flirt with my books.

I bid good-bye to sleep with sorrow,

When a pegion in glee bid me good morrow.

To the pegion’s plea had I agreed,

They may stay and well may breed.

My mosquito-net, I raised a bit high,

When some trespasser stung me good-bye,

And my lark like clock I eyed with haste,

Its too low song had made me late.

Sure that I shall sell

Before it turns a nightingale.

And straight I went to the stately stove,

With its fire beneath and flame above.

On it began the sacred rite,

Where solid and liquid measure their might

Where sugar to water loses the fight.

When it was dropped, it was lost to sight.

The victor liquid with leaves is encrowned.

And lo ! it looks like nector embrowned.

With its cup in hand and taste on tongue,

Between sense and sleep full well I swung,

Being puzzled by a point obtruse,

If drink can make or mar the muse

The warbler of the woodnotes wild,

He was of muse an erring child,

He may have gift or may have gout,

But will drink grace a drinking bout!

And Omar calls for a cup of wine,

Or Keats a cup of falernine!