 | My Lyrical Life |  |
II.
I sang my Song, which I had long rehearsed,And asked, with heaving breast and throat athirst,
For drink from some good soul, that might be you,
Not craving nectar, nor ambrosial dew,
But quite content with Critical half-and-half.
And then your lattice opened with a laugh,
And I, expectant of some natural drops,
Received, like Socrates, your shrewish slops.
| My Lyrical Life | |