From “Lucile” O HOUR of all hours, the most blest upon earth, Blest hour of our dinners! The land of his birth; The face of his first love; the bills that he owes; The twaddle of friends, and venom of foes; The sermon he heard when to church he last went; The money he borrowed, the money he spent; All of these things a man, I believe, may forget, And not be the worse for forgetting; but yet Never, never, oh, never! earth’s luckiest sinner Hath unpunished forgotten the hour of his dinner! Indigestion, that conscience of every bad stomach, Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue him with some ache Or some pain; and trouble, remorseless, his best ease, As the Furies once troubled the sleep of Orestes. We may live without poetry, music, and art; We may live without conscience, and live without earth; We may live without friends; we may live without books; But civilized men cannot live without cooks. He may live without books,—what is knowledge but grieving? He may live without hope,—what is hope but deceiving? He may live without love,—what is passion but pining? But where is the man that can live without dining?
Dining
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From “Lucile” O HOUR of all hours, the most blest upon earth, Blest hour of our dinners! The land of his birth; The face of his first love; the bills that he owes; The twaddle of friends, and venom of foes; The sermon he heard when to church he last went; The money he borrowed,...
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Midnight past! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman upstairs. A night of tears! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain...
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A Poet loved a Star, And to it whispered nightly, “Being so fair, why art thou, love, so far? Or why so coldly shine, who shin’st so brightly? O Beauty wooed and unpossest! O, might I to this beating breast But clasp thee once and then die blest!” That Star her Poet’s love, So wildly warm,...
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At Paris it was, at the opera there; And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note...
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My little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other’s eyes? Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o’er Queen and Knight;...