Classic Poem

Ida sitteth at the urn,
Every afternoon at three;
Since that summer at Lucerne
I am very fond of,—tea;
“Sugar?” “Thank you, just a lump.”
Ah, Pilatus, proud and free,
How my foolish heart goes thump,
I am very fond of,—tea.

Ida sitteth at the urn,
“One more cup?” “Why certainly,”
While we watched Swiss sunsets burn,
I grew very fond of,—tea;
Now we're married, in a flat,
She paints things, I write you see,
Cheese and kisses, and all that,
And we're very fond of,—tea.