A Garden Party in the Temple

On hospitable thoughts intent         To me the Inner Temple sent                     An invitation,         A garden party 'twas to be,         And I accepted readily                     And with elation;         Good reason too, but oft the seeds         Of reason flower in senseless deeds.         I stood as savage as a bear,         For not a human being there                     Knew I from Adam         I heard around in various tones,         "So glad to see you, Mr. Jones;"                     "Good morning, Madam."         It seemed so painfully absurd         To stand and never speak a word.         I brought my doom upon myself,         And there I was upon the shelf                     In melancholy.         Why, say you, did I go at all?         I once met Chloris at a ball,                     And in my folly         I went and suffered all this pain         In hopes to see her once again.         Of strawberries a pound at least         I ate, and made myself a beast                     With tea and sherry;         And raspberries I ate and trembled,         Until I felt that I resembled                     Myself a berry,         But 'twas the berry that at school         We used to call a gooseberry fool.         The I. C. R. V.[F] band droned on,         While guests had come and guests had gone                     Since my arrival;         My brow grew gloomier with despair,         And on it sat the guilty air                     Of a survival         Of some remorse for ancient crimes         Wrought in the pre-historic times.         My seventh cup of tea was done,         My seventh glass of wine begun,                     Then of her coming         I was aware, nor shall forget         How she and that brown sherry set                     My brains a-humming;         Well should I be rewarded soon         For all the weary afternoon.         Her eyes looked vaguely into mine         Without as much as half a sign                     Of recognition.         My heart, my heart! the blow was sore,         But you have often been before                     In this condition;         As said the bard of old, those eyes         Are not my only Paradise.[G]