' Alas, dear friend, that, all my days, 

 Has poured from that syringa thicket 



The quaintly discontinuous lays 

 To which I hold a season-ticket, — 



A season-ticket cheaply bought 



With a dessert of pilfered berries, — 



And who so oft my soul has caught 

 With morn and evening voluntaries.'* 



Lowell. 



