At the Altar-Rail
“My bride is not coming, alas!” says the groom,
And the telegram shakes in his hand. “I own
It was hurried! We met at a dancing—room
When 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 ways
Of 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."
