Explore "Brooks's (Club Cantos)" by Harry Graham on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
How soft those whiskered waiters tread, / Their dishes dexterously handing! / 'Twould seem (as some one aptly said) / As though a nobleman lay dead / Upon an upper landing, / In such tranquillity and quiet / Do members masticate their diet!
Yes, here is peace, that 'perfect peace,' / With loved ones safely at a distance, / Which men demand who seek release / From cares that cause the brow to crease / And poison the existence; / Peace, comatose -- nay, cataleptic -- / Dear to the dotard and dyspeptic!