Explore "The Clink of the Ice" by Eugene Field on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
NOTABLY fond of music, I dote on a sweeter tone / Than ever the harp has uttered or ever the lute has known.
When I wake at five in the morning with a feeling in my head / Suggestive of mild excesses before I retired to bed; / When a small but fierce volcano vexes me sore inside, / And my throat and mouth are furred with a fur that seemeth a buffalo hide, -- / How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fall / At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall!