And when they brought a cup of tea,
’Twas her refreshment, and ’twas mine—
I took the cup, the saucer she:
’Twas Congou (bad), it seemed like wine.
Oh! dream of other days (ah! when
Shall we not dream?)—there stands a crowd
Of babbling imps where she stood then,
And cobwebs half the window shroud.
I’ve said the “cause” I cannot tell
For which those pretty things were made,
For which white fingers worked so well,
In mysteries of beads and braid.
I know it did not fail—the tall
Young curate said so. I, for one,
Gained, at that dear old corner stall,
Love without change—I wanted none!