Do I sleep? Do I dream?

        Am I hoaxed by a scout?

     Are things what they seem,

        Or is Sophists about?

     Is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is Robert Browning played

       out?

     Which expressions like these

        May be fairly applied

     By a party who sees

        A Society skied

     Upon tea that the Warden of Keble had biled with legitimate

       pride.

    'Twas November the third,

        And I says to Bill Nye,

    'Which it's true what I've heard:

        If you're, so to speak, fly,

     There's a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort

       recommended as High.'

     Which I mentioned its name,

        And he ups and remarks:

    'If dress-coats is the game

        And pow-wow in the Parks,

     Then I 'm nuts on Sordello and Hohenstiel-Schwangau and similar

       Snarks.'

     Now the pride of Bill Nye

        Cannot well be express'd;

     For he wore a white tie

        And a cut-away vest:

     Says I, 'Solomon's lilies ain't in it, and they was reputed well

       dress'd.'

     But not far did we wend,

        When we saw Pippa pass

     On the arm of a friend

      —Doctor Furnivall 'twas,

     And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, return,

       second-class.

    'Well,' I thought, 'this is odd.'

        But we came pretty quick

     To a sort of a quad

        That was all of red brick,

     And I says to the porter,—'R. Browning: free passes; and kindly

       look slick.'

     But says he, dripping tears

        In his check handkerchief,

    'That symposium's career's

        Been regrettably brief,

     For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on

       gunpowder-leaf!'

     Then we tucked up the sleeves

        Of our shirts (that were biled),

     Which the reader perceives

        That our feelings were riled,

     And we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits

       of her child.

     Which emotions like these

        Must be freely indulged

     By a party who sees

        A Society bulged

     On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never

       divulged.

     But I ask,—Do I dream?

       Has it gone up the spout?

     Are things what they seem,

        Or is Sophists about?

     Is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is Robert Browning played

       out?