All round the rooms were shelves of black-dyed deal, On which stood pots and plates of every hue; Whilst far apart two lilièd angels kneel In Robbia white and blue. One deep recess, serge-covered, like a lawn, Held, on a brass-nailed shelf, its seat of state, Apart from other pots and pans withdrawn, An ancient kitchen-plate. "Hence whilst the world runs round and round," I said, "I will send forth my wits to gather wool; With task or toil I will not vex my head; But on that plate feed full." So day and night upon that plate I gazed, And strove to fix thereon what thought I had; Until my sight grew dim, and my sense dazed, And my digestion bad. My brain shrank like a nut adust and dried; I felt that I was not at all myself, And longed to lay my dwindled wits beside That plate upon that shelf. That ancient plate of willow-pattern blue, Which so absorbèd had my every thought, I seemed to live thereon, and slowly grew Confucian, clear of thought. One year I gazed upon that much-loved plate, Till at the last the sight began to pall. I said, "How know I 'tis of ancient date, Or China-ware at all?" So when one year was wholly finishèd, I put that willow-pattern plate away. "Now rather bring me Satsuma!" I said, "Or blue-green Cloisonnée. "For I am sick of this pervading hue, Steepèd wherein this landscape, stream, and sky, To my heart-weary question, 'Is all blue?' 'Yea, all is blue,' reply. "Yet do not smash the plate I so admired, When first my high æsthetic house I built; I may come back to it, of Dresden tired, And Sèvres gaily gilt." * * * * * Although taken from Cruikshank's _Comic Almanack_, for 1846, the following parody of _The May Queen_ is so fresh and so funny that it might have been written yesterday:-- THE QUEEN OF THE FÊTE. _By Alfred Tennyson._ I.--THE DAY BEFORE. [_To be read with liveliness._] If you're waking, call me early, mother, fine, or wet, or bleak; To-morrow is the happiest day of all the Ascot week; It is the Chiswick fête, mother, of flowers and people gay, And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may. There's many a bright _barege_, they say, but none so bright as mine, And whiter gloves, that have been cleaned, and smell of turpentine; But none so nice as mine, I know, and so they all will say; And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not shout at my bedside, and give me a good shake; For I have got those gloves to trim with blonde and ribbons gay. And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may.