Under the eglantine
The fretful concubine
Said, “Phooey! Phoo!”
She whispered, “Pfui!”
The demi-monde
On the mezzanine
Said, “Phooey!” too,
And a “Hey-de-i-do!”
The bee may have all sweet
For his honey-hive-o,
From the eglantine-o.
And the chandeliers are neat …
But their mignon, marblish glare!
We are cold, the parrots cried,
In a place so debonair.
The Johannisberger, Hans.
I love the metal grapes,
The rusty, battered shapes
Of the pears and of the cheese
And the window’s lemon light,
The very will of the nerves,
The crack across the pane,
The dirt along the sill.