Page 77 - Poetry-Whimsy

And tells me in “How young you are!”
I’m growing old!

Thanks for the years, whose rapid flight
My somber music too sadly sings;
Thanks for the gleams of golden light
That tint the darkness of their wings;
The light that beams from out the sky
Those heavenly mansions to unfold,
Where all the blest, and none may sigh
I’m growing old!
—John G. Saxe (from a Victorian Scrap Album)

A Hole in the Stocking

How queerly does a fellow feel
A walking in the street,
When he’s aware his stocking heel
Makes visible his feet.

He knows the females, as they walk
Before him and behind,
Of his deficiency will talk—
For they are never blind.

He fancies he can hear them say,
“That is a curious chap,
To curl his hair and dress so gay,
With such a stocking gap.”
He lifts his foot up awkwardly,
And puts it down again,
And tries to pass, that none may see,
But labors all in vain.
He fancies too a thousand girls
To see his heel are flocking;
O, who can tell the horrors of
A single holy stocking!

— (from a Victorian Scrap Album)

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