YOU, Charidemus, who my cradle swung, And watched me all the days that I was young; You, at whose step the laziest slaves awake, And both the bailiff and the butler quake; The barber's suds now blacken with my beard, And my rough kisses make the maids afeared; And with reproach your awful eyebrows twitch, And for the cane, I see, your fingers itch. If something daintily attired I go, Straight you exclaim: "Your father did not so." And fuming, count the bottles on the board As though my cellar were your private hoard. Enough, at last: I have done all I can, And your own mistress hails me for a man. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NEW APOCRYPHA: BERENICE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE WALLS DO NOT FALL: 4 by HILDA DOOLITTLE TO THE THAWING WIND by ROBERT FROST SUMMER STORM by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL NOVEMBER BLUE by ALICE MEYNELL THE HAUNTED PALACE by EDGAR ALLAN POE JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE [OCTOBER 16, 1859] by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN |