MYSTERIOUS.
39
Don't hail a person, as he goes
With hurried air and ringing tread,
To tell him of your private woes!
In half an hour should you be dead,
How long the fact, do you suppose,
Would interest his busy head?
With hurried air and ringing tread,
To tell him of your private woes!
In half an hour should you be dead,
How long the fact, do you suppose,
Would interest his busy head?
Don't let the world know all about
Your petty, pitiful affairs!
For some will smile, and others doubt;
A few, perhaps, will in their prayers
Remember you—the few devout—
But, after all, nobody cares.
Your petty, pitiful affairs!
For some will smile, and others doubt;
A few, perhaps, will in their prayers
Remember you—the few devout—
But, after all, nobody cares.
Mysterious.
It was on a winter's night,
And the wind blew sharp and shrill;
Brightly glowed the anthracite
Lighting up my domicile,
When before the fire I brought
My fauteuil, soft and low,
Cushioned, carved, and quaintly wrought
In the style of long ago.
And the wind blew sharp and shrill;
Brightly glowed the anthracite
Lighting up my domicile,
When before the fire I brought
My fauteuil, soft and low,
Cushioned, carved, and quaintly wrought
In the style of long ago.
