Ode to the Culinary Muse.
By H. K. Harris
Let poets all rave of the beauty of spring,
And talk of the heart’s hopeless pining,
But I’ve found with most mortals in this weary world,
There’s nothing that quite equals dining. The artist may dwell with his head in the clouds,
In an atmosphere pure and refining,
But in everyday life you will hear him admit,
There’s nothing that quite equals dining. My sweetheart, just eighteen, fair, fond, and petite,
Talks sentiment when the moon’s shining,
But man can not live upon moonbeams and love,
And there’s nothing that quite equals dining. Though youth’s fond illusions are withered and blighted,
Yet life’s disappointments are scarce worth repining.
To heal broken hearts and make life worth the living,
There’s nothing that quite equals dining. — H. K. Harris, in Good Housekeeping.