“But, father,” I remarked, “a person must be sadly

The sweetness that all longed for night and day,

The gentleness none there had ever known;

But when the master's buried mice can play.

And maybe the great-grandson of that house,

For all its bronze and marble, 's but a mouse.

O what if gardens where the peacock strays

With delicate feet upon old terraces,

Or else all Juno from an urn displays