Sic Transit
Just a note that I found on my table,
By the bills of a year buried o’er,
In a feminine hand and requesting
My presence for tennis at four.
Half remorseful for leaving it lying
In surroundings unworthy as those,
I carefully dusted and smoothed it,
And mutely begged pardon of Rose.
But I thought with a smile of the proverb
Which says you may treat as you will
The vase which has once contained roses,
Their fragrance will cling to it still.
For the writer I scarcely remember,
The occasion has vanished afar,
And the fragrance that clings to the letter
Recalls—an Havana cigar.
W.B. ANDERSON.