At the Altar-Rail
“My bride is not coming, alas!” says the groom,And the telegram shakes in his hand. “I ownIt was hurried! We met at a dancing-roomWhen I went to the Cattle-Show alone,And then, next night, where the Fountain leaps,And the Street of the Quarter-Circle sweeps.
“Ay, she won me to ask her to be my wife—’Twas foolish perhaps!—to forsake the waysOf the flaring town for a farmer’s life.She agreed. And we fixed it. Now she says:‘It’s sweet of you, dear, to prepare me a nest,But a swift, short, gay life suits me best.What I really am you have never gleaned;I had eaten the apple ere you were weaned.’”
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