Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me. Repenting her virtuous freak-- Subdued myself daily and nightly For the better part of a week. And then ('twas my duty to spare her The shame of recalling me) I Just sought her again to prepare her For an everlasting good-bye. O, that evening of bliss--shall I ever Forget it?--with Shakespeare and Poe! She said, when 'twas ended: "You're never To see me again. And now go." As we parted with kisses 'twas human And natural for me to smile As I thought, "She's in love, and a woman: She'll send for me after a while." But she didn't; and so--well, the Mission Is fine, picturesque and gray; It's an excellent place for contrition-- And sometimes she passes that way. That's how it occurred that I met her, And that's ah there is to tell-- Except that I'd like to forget her Calm way of remarking: "I'm well." It was hardly worth while, all this keying My soul to such tensions and stirs To learn that her food was agreeing With that little stomach of hers. HOMO PODUNKENSIS. As the poor ass that from his paddock strays Might sound abroad his field-companions' praise, Recounting volubly their well-bred leer, Their port impressive and their wealth of ear, Mistaking for the world's assent the clang Of echoes mocking his accurst harangue; So the dull clown, untraveled though at large, Visits the city on the ocean's marge, Expands his eyes and marvels to remark Each coastwise schooner and each alien bark; Prates of "all nations," wonders as he stares That native merchants sell imported wares, Nor comprehends how in his very view A foreign vessel has a foreign crew; Yet, faithful to the hamlet of his birth, Swears it superior to aught on earth, Sighs for the temples locally renowned-- The village school-house and the village pound-- And chalks upon the palaces of Rome The peasant sentiments of "Home, Sweet Home!" A SOCIAL CALL. Well, well, old Father Christmas, is it you, With your thick neck and thin pretense of virtue? Less redness in the nose--nay, even some blue Would not, I think, particularly hurt you. When seen close to, not mounted in your car, You look the drunkard and the pig you are. No matter, sit you down, for I am not In a gray study, as you sometimes find me. Merry? O, no, nor wish to be, God wot, But there's another year of pain behind me. That's something to be thankful for: the more There are behind, the fewer are before. I know you, Father Christmas, for a scamp, But Heaven endowed me at my soul's creation With an affinity to every tramp That walks the world and steals its admiration. For admiration is like linen left Upon the line--got easiest by theft.