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FOUR RIDDLES.
205
And thus they give the time, that Nature meant
For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,
To ceaseless din and mindless merriment
And waste of shoes and floors.
And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers,
That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,
They doom to pass in solitude the hours,
Writing acrostic-ballads.
How late it grows! The hour is surely past
That should have warned us with its double-knock?
The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last–
“Oh, Uncle, what’s o’clock?”
The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks.
It may mean much, but how is one to know?
He opes his mouth–yet out of it, methinks,
No words of wisdom flow.
