Wanting is――what? Lemon redundant, Sugar abundant. ――Water made hot! Shining the glass, yet a blank all the same. ――Framework that waits for a liquid to frame: What of the whisky, what of its power? Spirits devouring with nought they devour! Come, then, O bright brain!――bewildering body, Gleam through the goblet, and perfect the toddy! Who drinks may remark How all that was near Grows distant and dark, Grows dim, grows queer, Grows――queer! MYNIE. WOOING IS――WHAT? Wooing is――what? Sighing redundant, Blisses abundant. ――What is it not? “Balmy”’s the word, yet it’s rough all the same. ――Fretwork which warps both the mind and the frame: What of her temper, what of her dower? Posers o’erpowering which come in a shower! Come it, O pleasing perplexity, come it A trifle less strong, while I venture to sum it Up in one breath: The absence of gold To wooing is death―― Calf-love grows cold, Grows cold! EXE. WANTING IS――WHAT? (_A Billiard Mystery. From the new volume “Jomilleria.”_) Wanting is――what? Scoring addition, Getting position, Here on the spot? Seamy his clothes, yet a crack at the game. ――Marker he knows, and addresses by name: What of the sharper, what of his power? Gloomily glowering with nought to devour! Come then, complete ignoramus, O comer, Flush in thy greenness, needy the bummer! One game he lets You make,――that’s enough! Trebles the bets, Goes slow, gives snuff, Gives snuff! A. S. W. From _The Weekly Dispatch_, April 1, 1883. ―――― The following imitation, written by Miss Fitzpatrick, appeared in the _Red Dragon Magazine_, (Cardiff), September, 1884:―― Come _is_ the Comer! Wild Winter railing, Snow storms prevailing, Gone is the Summer! Bleak looks the world, Yet a something is here, A Picture, but waiting the Frame to appear. Bare are the branches, Ne’er a flower blooms, The Roses lie dead, unbemoaned in their tombs, Yet come has Completion! that marvellous tinter, That maketh a Paradise even in winter! Happiness rife, Though Death reigns around, For sweeter than Life Is Love when found, Love’s found! ――――:o:―――― THE LOST LEADER Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat―― Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allow’d: