And now and then a lingering cloud
Takes gracious form at my desire,
And at my side my lady stands,
Unwinds her veil with snowy hands,--
A shadowy shape, a breath of fire!
O Love, if you were only here
Beside me in this mellow light,
Though all the bitter winds should blow,
And all the ways be choked with snow,
'Twould be a true Arabian night!
T.B. ALDRICH.
MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD.
Some sombre evening, when I sit
And feed in solitude at home,
Perchance an ultra-bilious fit
Paints all the world an orange chrome.
When Fear and Care and grim Despair
Flock round me in a ghostly crowd,
One charm dispels them all in air,--
I blow my after-dinner cloud.
'Tis melancholy to devour
The gentle chop in loneliness.
I look on six--my prandial hour--
With dread not easy to express.
And yet for every penance done,
Due compensation seems allow'd.
My penance o'er, its price is won,--
I blow my after-dinner cloud.
My clay is _not_ a Henry Clay,--
I like it better on the whole;
And when I fill it, I can say,
I drown my sorrows in the bowl.
For most I love my lowly pipe
When weary, sad, and leaden-brow'd;
At such a time behold me ripe
To blow my after-dinner cloud.
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