human
Ah! sweet rose,
gpt
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
human
He was no poet who wrote that, anyhow,
gpt
You are wrong, friend. He was a good poet and true.
human
Do you mean to tell me that the sweetness o' that rose is _wasted_ here?
gpt
Nay, I do not say that. The poet did not mean to imply that its sweetness is utterly wasted, but to assert the fact that, as far as civilised man is concerned, it is so.
human
echoed March, turning up his nose (a difficult feat, by the way, for his nose by nature turned down).
gpt
An' pray what's `civilised man' that he should think everything's wasted that don't go in at his own eyes, or up his own nose, or down his own throat? eh?
human
You are a severe critic, friend.
gpt
I don't know, and I don't care, what sort o' cricket I am; but this I do know, that roses are as little wasted here as in your country--mayhap not so much. Why, I tell ye I've seen the _bars_ smell 'em.
human
Indeed.
gpt
Ay, an' eat 'em too!
human
That was not taking a poetical view of them,
gpt
Perhaps not, but it was uncommonly practical,