A CURATE'S COMPLAINT.
Reading edition
Where are they all departed, The loved ones of my youth, Those emblems white of purity, Sweet innocence and truth? When day-light drives the darkness, When evening melts to night, When noon-day suns burn brightest, They come not to my sight.
I miss their pure embraces Around my neck and throat, The thousand winning graces Whereon I used to dote. I know I may find markets Where love is bought and sold, But no such love can equal The tender ties of old.
My gentle washer-woman, I know that you are true; The least shade of suspicion Can never fall on you. Then fear me not, as fiercely I fix on thee stern eyes, And ask in terms emphatic, "Where are my lost white ties?"
Each year I buy a dozen, Yet scarce a year is gone, Ere, looking in my ward-robe, I find that I have none. I don't believe in magic, I know that you are true, Yet say, my washer-woman, What can those white ties do?
Does each with her own collar To regions far elope, Regions by starch untainted, And innocent of soap? I know not; but in future I'll buy no more white ties, But wear the stiff 'all-rounder' Of Ritualistic guise.