In a Restaurant

In a Restaurant written by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

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       He wears a red rose in his buttonhole,
       A city-clerk on Sunday dining out:
       And as the music surges over the din
       The heady quavering of the violin
       Sings through his blood, and puts old cares to rout,
       And tingles, quickening, through his shrunken soul,

       Till he forgets he ledgers, and the prim
       Black, crabbèd figures, and the qualmy smell
       Of ink and musty leather and leadglaze,
       As, in eternities of Summer days,
       He dives through shivering waves, or rides the swell
       On rose-red seas of melody aswim.

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