XXXV

3 0 00

XXXV

The chairs are thrust back with a roar,

The crowd unto the drawing-room speeds,

As bees who leave their dainty store

And seek in buzzing swarms the meads.

Contented and with victuals stored,

Neighbour by neighbour sat and snored,

Matrons unto the fireplace go,

Maids in the corner whisper low;

Behold! green tables are brought forth,

And testy gamesters do engage

In boston and the game of age,

Ombre, and whist all others worth:

A strong resemblance these possess⁠—

All sons of mental weariness.