Lyrical Intermezzo, 55

They sat round the tea-table drinking
And speaking of love a great deal;
The men of æsthetics were thinking,
The ladies more prone were to feel.

“All love ought to be but platonical”
The wither’d old counsellor said;
His wife by a smile quite ironical
Rejoin’d, and then sighed “Ah!” instead.

Said the canon with visage dejected:
“Love ne’er should be suffered to go
“Too far, or the health is affected;”
The maiden then simper’d: “How so?”

The Countess her sad feelings vented,
Said “Love is a passion, I’m sure,”
And then to the Baron presented
His cup with politeness demure.

A place was still empty at table;
My darling, ’twas thou wert away;
Thou hadst been so especially able
The tale of thy love, sweet, to say.