A STUDY IN GRAY. I step from the door with a shiver (This fog is uncommonly cold) And ask myself: What did I give her?-- The maiden a trifle gone-old, With the head of gray hair that was gold. Ah, well, I suppose 'twas a dollar, And doubtless the change is correct, Though it's odd that it seems so much smaller Than what I'd a right to expect. But you pay when you dine, I reflect. So I walk up the street--'twas a saunter A score of years back, when I strolled From this door; and our talk was all banter Those days when her hair was of gold, And the sea-fog less searching and cold. I button my coat (for I'm shaken, And fevered a trifle, and flushed With the wine that I ought to have taken,) Time was, at this coat I'd have blushed, Though truly, 'tis cleverly brushed. A score? Why, that isn't so very Much time to have lost from a life. There's reason enough to be merry: I've not fallen down in the strife, But marched with the drum and the fife. If Hope, when she lured me and beckoned, Had pushed at my shoulders instead, And Fame, on whose favors I reckoned, Had laureled the worthiest head, I could garland the years that are dead. Believe me, I've held my own, mostly Through all of this wild masquerade; But somehow the fog is more ghostly To-night, and the skies are more grayed, Like the locks of the restaurant maid. If ever I'd fainted and faltered I'd fancy this did but appear; But the climate, I'm certain, has altered-- Grown colder and more austere Than it was in that earlier year. The lights, too, are strangely unsteady, That lead from the street to the quay. I think they'll go out--and I'm ready To follow. Out there in the sea The fog-bell is calling to me. A PARADOX. "If life were not worth having," said the preacher, "'T would have in suicide one pleasant feature." "An error," said the pessimist, "you're making: What's not worth having cannot be worth taking." FOR MERIT. To Parmentier Parisians raise A statue fine and large: He cooked potatoes fifty ways, Nor ever led a charge. "_Palmam qui meruit"_--the rest You knew as well as I; And best of all to him that best Of sayings will apply. Let meaner men the poet's bays Or warrior's medal wear; Who cooks potatoes fifty ways Shall bear the palm--de terre. A BIT OF SCIENCE. What! photograph in colors? 'Tis a dream And he who dreams it is not overwise, If colors are vibration they but seem, And have no being. But if Tyndall lies, Why, come, then--photograph my lady's eyes. Nay, friend, you can't; the splendor of their blue, As on my own beclouded orbs they rest, To naught but vibratory motion's due, As heart, head, limbs and all I am attest. How could her eyes, at rest themselves, be making In me so uncontrollable a shaking?