Poetry Archives

And if, my friend, you’d have it end,
  There’s naught to hear or tell.
But need you try to black my eye
  In wishing me farewell.

Though I admit an edged wit
  In woe is warranted,
May I be frank? . . . Such words as “—”
  Are better left unsaid.

There’s rosemary for you and me;
  But is it usual, dear,
To hire a man, and fill a van
  By way of souvenir?