Balance getting low.

Sweet to return from Como or Sorrento.
Meshed in their shimmering net of drowsy sheen,
Into a climate that you know not when to
Really call serene.

Sweet to return from hostelries whose waiters
Rush to fulfil your slightest word or whim,
Back to a cook who passionately caters
Not for you, but _him_.

Sweet to return from _Table-d'Hôtes_ disgusting
(Oh, how you grumbled at the _Sauce Romaine_!)
Fresh to the filmy succulence incrusting
Solid joints again.

Sweet to return from Innkeepers demurely
Pricing your candle at a franc unshamed,
Back to a land where perquisites are surely
Never, never claimed.

Sweet to return from bargaining, disputing,
_Pourboires_ and _Trinkgelds_ grudgingly bestowed--
Unto the simple charioteers of Tooting,
Or the Cromwell Road.

Sweet to return from "all those dreadful tourists,"
Such mixed society as chance allots,
E'en to the social splendour of the purists