In the Room by James Thomson.

Part 8 of 13.

It was not much

she ever wrote;
Her fingers had good work to do;
Say, once a week a pretty note;
And very long it took her too.
And little more she read, I wis;
Just now and then a pictured sheet,
Besides those letters she would kiss
And croon for hours, they were so sweet.

She had her friends too, blithe young girls,
Who whisper’d, babbled, laugh’d, caress’d,
And romp’d and danced with dancing curls,
And gave our life a joyous zest.
But with this dullard, glum and sour,
Not one of all his fellow-men
Has ever pass’d a social hour;
We might be in some wild beast’s den.