Page:The city of dreadful night - and other poems (IA cityofdreadfulni00thomrich).pdf/85

 The table answered, Not quite all; He saved and folded up one sheet, And sealed it fast, and let it fall; And here it lies now white and neat. Whereon the letters whisper came, My writing is closed up too well; Outside there's not a single name, And who should read me I can't tell.

The mirror sneered with scornful spite, (That ancient crack which spoiled her looks Had marred her temper), Write and write! And read those stupid, worn- out books! That's all he does, read, write, and read, And smoke that nasty pipe which stinks: He never takes the slightest heed How any of us feels or thinks.

But Lucy fifty times a day Would come and smile here in my face, Adjust a tress that curled astray, Or tie a ribbon with more grace: