1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14the best of all things to an end must come
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