Her Fan

A dainty thing of silk and lace,
Of feathers, and of paint,
Held often to her laughing face
When I assume the saint.

Too dainty far to mix with these
Old pipes, cigars, and books
Of bachelordom,—rare life of ease,—
Rare friends, rare wines, rare cooks.

’Twill smell of stale tobacco smoke
Ere many days I fear,
And hear full many a rattling joke,
And feel, perhaps, a tear.

Why is it here? Alas for me!
I broke it at a ball.
“Apologize—repair it” See?
Five dollars gone,—that’s all.