Classic and Contemporary Poetry
EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES OF A SENTIMENTALIST, by THOMAS HOOD Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: I think it was spring - but not certain I am Last Line: Were all crying -- I think it was sprats! Subject(s): Food & Eating | ||||||||
I THINK it was Spring -- but not certain I am -- When my passion began first to work; But I know we were certainly looking for lamb And the season was over for pork. 'Twas at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase, Yes, -- for Morris had asked me to dine, -- And I thought I had never beheld such a face, Or so noble a turkey and chine. Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild, With sheer envy to witness my luck; How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smil'd As I afterwards offered some duck. I looked and I languished, alas, to my cost, Through three courses of dishes and meats; Getting deeper in love -- but my heart was quite lost, When it came to the trifle and sweets! With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land, To her parents I told my designs -- And then to herself I presented my hand, With a very fine pottle of pines! I asked her to have me for weal or for woe And she did not object in the least; -- I can't tell the date -- but we married, I know, Just in time to have game at the feast. We went to -----, it certainly was the seaside; For the next, the most blessed of morns, I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride, Sitting down to a plateful of prawns. O never may mem'ry lose sight of that year, But still hallow the time as it ought, That season the "grass" was remarkably dear, And the peas at a guinea a quart. So happy, like hours, all our day seem'd to haste, A fond pair, such as poets have drawn, So united in heart -- so congenial in taste, We were both of us partial to brawn! A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride, But then Death -- I ne'er dreamt about that! Oh there's nothing is certain in life, as I cried, When my turbot eloped with the cat! My dearest took ill at the turn of the year, But the cause no physician could nab; But something it seem'd like consumption, I fear, It was just after supping on crab. In vain she was doctor'd, in vain she was dosed, Still her strength and her appetite pined; She lost relish for what she had relish'd the most, Even salmon she deeply declin'd! For months still I linger'd in hope and in doubt, While her form it grew wasted and thin; But the last dying spark of existence went out, As the oysters were just coming in! She died, and she left me the saddest of men To indulge in a widower's moan, Oh, I felt all the power of solitude then, As I ate my first natives alone! But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks, And with sorrowful crape on their hats, O my grief poured a flood! and the out-of-door folks Were all crying -- I think it was sprats! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WAITRESSING IN THE ROOM WITH A THOUSAND MOONS by MATTHEA HARVEY CANDIED YAMS' by TERRANCE HAYES DINNER OF HERBS by LOUISE MOREY BOWMAN THE BANQUET SONG by KENNETH KOCH SPLITTING AN ORDER by TED KOOSER |
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