“Amongst the many others that were present that
Cup Day were ... Mr. and Mrs. W.—— L.—— (the
latter by the way has just lost a dear dog in
London).”—_The Lady._
I am not lightly moved, my grief was dumb
At Great-Aunt Cohen’s death, nor did I whine
When Uncle Monty did at last succumb,
Aged close on sixty-nine.
Dear are my friends, and yet my heart still light is,
Undimmed the eyes that see our set depart,
Snatched from the Season by appendicitis
Or something quite as smart.
But when my Chin-Chin drew his latest breath
On Marie’s out-spread apron, slow and wheezily,
I simply sniffed, I could not take _his_ death
So Pekineasily.
All day at Goodwood, where I planned to go,
Superb in pink and Coronation-blue,
I mourned, until my husband sought to know
What good would mourning do?
“Fool,” I replied, “grief courts these sad ovations,
And many press my sable-suèded hand,
Noting the blackest of Lucile’s creations,
Inquire, and understand:
And he who lies among the plane-trees shady,
May rest in peace below the fallen leaf,
For one, the Correspondent of ‘The Lady,’
Shares and respects my grief.”