I have not forgotten our little white retreat
    Where we were neighbors to the town of busy streets;
    Our plaster Venus and Pomona barely could
    Conceal their nakedness within our meagre wood.
    Evenings, the sun would stream superbly, and would splash
    Prismatic colors through the simple window glass;
    He seemed a curious eye in overarching space
    Who watched us as we dined in silence, without haste,
    And spread throughout the room a mellow candle-glow
    On frugal drapes of serge, the tablecloth below.