A Curate's Complaint.

Where are they all departed,             The loved ones of my youth,         Those emblems white of purity,             Sweet innocence and truth?         When day-light drives the darkness,             When evening melts to night,         When noon-day suns burn brightest,             They come not to my sight.         I miss their pure embraces             Around my neck and throat,         The thousand winning graces             Whereon I used to dote.         I know I may find markets             Where love is bought and sold,         But no such love can equal             The tender ties of old.         My gentle washer-woman,             I know that you are true;         The least shade of suspicion             Can never fall on you.         Then fear me not, as fiercely             I fix on thee stern eyes,         And ask in terms emphatic,             "Where are my lost white ties?"         Each year I buy a dozen,             Yet scarce a year is gone,         Ere, looking in my ward-robe,             I find that I have none.         I don't believe in magic,             I know that you are true,         Yet say, my washer-woman,             What can those white ties do?         Does each with her own collar             To regions far elope,         Regions by starch untainted,             And innocent of soap?         I know not; but in future             I'll buy no more white ties,         But wear the stiff 'all-rounder'             Of Ritualistic guise.