CLAD in his ermine and his robes of state,
The haughty king in pomp and splendor sate.
And ’mong the crowds which thronged the regal chair,
My first approached, and looked upon him there,
She, too, with white-furred robe and gentle mien,
And noble air and countenance serene.
“What does she here?” grumbled a doughty knight.
The king replied, “The world hath said she might.”

I walked across a sunny field one day,
And saw an old man working by the way.
“How is my last, old man?” I gaily said.
“My last?” said he, and bent his grizzled head.
“How is my last?” I said it o’er again.
“My last?” he said (he seemed perplexed), and then—
“Is my last good?” I asked of him once more.
“Fine, sir,” he said; “better than e’er before.”

Across the ocean’s wave my total lies;
And, as Lord Tennyson in verse implies,
Is dull and undesirable; but still,
I ’d gladly travel there, had I my will.