Page:Carroll - Phantasmagoria and other poems (1869).djvu/125

Rh  How late it grows! Long since the hour is past That should have warned us with its double knock; The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last— "Oh, Uncle! what's o'clock?"

The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks— It may mean much; but how is one to know? He opes his mouth—yet out of it, methinks, No words of wisdom flow.