22 October, 2019 by katelaity
Do you hear that tune uncanny?
It seems uncommonly near.
A mournful wyrd old melody
Coming from just behind my ear.
I have no guilty conscience!
Poor Evie: she chose her end.
I left her high and dry (in tears, true):
It was she who wandered the fens!
Is this my everlasting fate
To hear her pluck that lyre?
A cad I might have been, a churl:
But you could never say a liar.
[Gratitude as always to the bounteous treasures of the British Library Flickr account: this gem from Festival of Song: a series of Evenings with the Poets. Prepared by the author of “Salad for the Solitary” … (F. Saunders). With … pictures by Members of the National Academy of Design. Engraved by Bobbett and Hooper, 1866.]