LXXV



What good to dread the Storm's impending Black
With woful Ululation and "Alack!" -
The garbled Tenor of a sore Despite
Can never bring your lost Umbrella back.



LXXVI



So what of Secrets mouthed beneath the Rose,
Rumorous Badinage of These and Those? -
The Lady Lodger in the Flat upstairs
Knows all you do and say - she knows - she knows!



LXXVII



She knows, but though her cavernous Ears are sage,