FOR these white arms about my neck--
For the dainty room, with its ordered grace--
For my snowy linen without a fleck--
For the tender charm of this uplift face--
For the softened light and the homelike air--
The low, luxurious cannel fire--
The padded ease of my chosen chair--
The devoted love that discounts desire--
I sometimes think, when twelve is struck
By the clock on the mantel, tinkling clear,
I would take--and thank the gods for the luck--
One single hour with the boys and the beer,
Where the sawdust-scent of a cheap saloon
Is mingled with malt; where each man smokes;
Where they sing the street-songs out of tune,
Talk Art, and bandy ephemeral jokes.
By Jove, I do! And all the time
I know not a man that is there to-night,
But would barter his brains to be where I’m--
And I’m well aware that the beggars are right.
_H. C. Bunner._