And little dainty knick-knacks everywhere;
And silken bows and curtains of gay chintz…
And oh, her tiny crib, her folding chair!
Sweet woman dear, and did your heart not break,
To leave this precious home you made in vain?
Poor shabby things! so prized for old times’ sake,
With all their memories of love and pain.
Alas! while shouts the raucous auctioneer,
And rat-faced dames are prying everywhere,
The echo of old joy is all I hear,
All, all I see just heartbreak and despair.
Imagination is the great gift of the gods. Given it, one does not need to look afar for subjects. There is romance in every face.
Those who have Imagination live in a land of enchantment which the eyes of others cannot see. Yet if it brings marvelous joy it also brings exquisite pain. Who lives a hundred lives must die a hundred deaths.
I do not know any of the people who live around me. Sometimes I pass them on the stairs. However, I am going to give my Imagination rein, and string some rhymes about them.
Before doing so, having money in my pocket and seeing the prospect of making more, let me blithely chant about
