A WINTER EVE.
The day is done at last, The stupid day Has wavered, waned and wept Itself away. But like some bores that one Is forcod to know, We half forgive them when They really go. A stealthy darkness creeps Across the street, The larrikin conies forth With nimble feet, Poor patient horses pass My window by, And I am left alone To nmso nnd sigh For hopes that rose this morn, That died this eve ; For faults I idly mourn, Yet cannot leave ; And two dark merry eyes ; A debt or so Come round me in this hour, And will not go. One's life is one regret. But pull the blind And shut the twilight out. E'en fogies find Vain thoughts go Hashing by That will not keep Away, till blotted out By pipes and sleep. Flin Flukkham.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/TO18810618.2.27
Bibliographic details
Observer, Volume II, Issue 40, 18 June 1881, Page 441
Word Count
140A WINTER EVE. Observer, Volume II, Issue 40, 18 June 1881, Page 441
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