A Cup Of Tea.

    I have sipped, with drooping lashes,
        Dreamy draughts of Verzenay;
    I have flourished brandy-smashes
        In the wildest sort of way;
    I have joked with "Tom and Jerry"
        Till wee hours ayont the twal' -
    But I've found my tea the very
        Safest tipple of them all!

    'Tis a mystical potation
        That exceeds in warmth of glow
    And divine exhilaration
        All the drugs of long ago -
    All of old magicians' potions -
        Of Medea's filtered spells -
    Or of fabled isles and oceans
        Where the Lotos-eater dwells!

    Though I've reveled o'er late lunches
        With blasé dramatic stars,
    And absorbed their wit and punches
        And the fumes of their cigars -
    Drank in the latest story,
        With a cock-tail either end, -
    I have drained a deeper glory
        In a cup of tea, my friend.

    Green, Black, Moyune, Formosa,
        Congou, Amboy, Pingsuey -
    No odds the name it knows - ah!
        Fill a cup of it for me!
    And, as I clink my china
        Against your goblet's brim,
    My tea in steam shall twine a
        Fragrant laurel round its rim.

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

As Created

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

That Night

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

A Discouraging Model

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Mulberry Tree

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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Tea's Apologia.

Loved by a host from Noah's days till now,
Extolled by bards in many a glowing line,
My purple rival of the mantling brow
May laugh to scorn this swarthy face of mine.
I care not: many a weary pain I cure;
Cold, heat and thirst I harmlessly abate;
I bless the weak, the aged and the poor;
And I have known the favor of the great.

I've cheered the minds of mighty poets gone;
Philosophers have owned my solace true;
Shy Cowper was my sweet Anacreon;
Keen Hazlitt craved "whole goblets" of my brew;
De Quincey praised my stimulating draught;
What cups of me old Doctor Johnson quaffed!

W. M. MacKeracher

A Pot of Tea

You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam;
You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear;
You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam;
The very breath of it is ripe with cheer.
You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot;
You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot;
It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot:
God bless the man that first discovered Tea!

Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day,
I think I've drunk enough to float a barge;
All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay,
To rum they serves you out before a charge.
In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham;
I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam;
But 'struth! t...

Robert William Service

Drink Of This Cup.

Drink of this cup;--you'll find there's a spell in
    Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
    Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Would you forget the dark world we are in,
    Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;
But would you rise above earth, till akin
    To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it;
Send round the cup--for oh there's a spell in
    Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
    Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter formed with such power
    To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,
    A harvest of gold in the fields it stoo...

Thomas Moore

De Tea Fabula.

Plain Language from truthful James^[1].


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...

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

The Secret Of The Stars - From Readings Over The Teacups - Five Stories And A Sequel

Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides
The silent spring that feeds its whispering tides?
Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breeding Earth,
Tell the half-hinted story of thy birth,
And calm the noisy champions who have thrown
The book of types against the book of stone!

Have ye not secrets, ye refulgent spheres,
No sleepless listener of the starlight hears?
In vain the sweeping equatorial pries
Through every world-sown corner of the skies,
To the far orb that so remotely strays
Our midnight darkness is its noonday blaze;
In vain the climbing soul of creeping man
Metes out the heavenly concave with a span,
Tracks into space the long-lost meteor's trail,
And weighs an unseen planet in the scale;
Still o'er their doubts the wan-eyed watchers sigh,
...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Measure For Measure.

By O--r K--m.

Wake! for the closed Pavilion doors have kept
Their silence while the white-eyed Kaffir slept,
    And wailed the Nightingale with 'Jug, jug, jug!'
Whereat, for empty cup, the White Rose wept.

Enter with me where yonder door hangs out
Its Red Triangle to a world of drought,
    Inviting to the Palace of the Djinn,
Where Death, Aladdin, waits as Chuckerout.

Methought, last night, that one in suit of woe
Stood by the Tavern-door and whispered, 'Lo,
    The Pledge departed, what avails the Cup?
Then take the Pledge and let the Wine-cup go.'

But I: 'For every thirsty soul that drains
This Anodyne of Thought its rim contains--
    Free-will the can, Necessity the must,
Pour off the must, and, see, the ca...

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch