XXXIX

3 0 00

XXXIX

’Twas dusk! Upon the table bright

Shrill sang the samovar at eve,

The china teapot too ye might

In clouds of steam above perceive.

Into the cups already sped

By Olga’s hand distributed

The fragrant tea in darkling stream,

And a boy handed round the cream.

Tania doth by the casement linger

And breathes upon the chilly glass,

Dreaming of what not, pretty lass,

And traces with a slender finger

Upon its damp opacity,

The mystic monogram, O. E.