John Bannister Tabb
John Bannister Tabb Poems
What fruit of all thy blossom shed
Remaineth unto me?
'A dream, whereon thy Fancy fed,
Shall spin anon her golden thread,
And then, of fetters free,
Arise with radiant pinions spread,
To heights of Poesy.'
A Brief Pedigree
My mother was a Mare;
My father was, alas,
(It pains me to declare),
A veritable Ass.
With rare exceptions, as a rule,
There're no descendants from a Mule-
The simple reason why, no doubt,
Some other families die out.