So twice some space of potting ground
A glassed in terrace girdled round,
And there were gardens with sinuous rills of orchids bright,
Where many an incense-bearing smell arose and wafted
here and there through ancient halls at night,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenhouse-ery.

But oh! that deep elevator chasm which slanted
Down the brownstone where audience was granted
It was a savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By a client’s check-book wailing tearily.

There, Fritz the treasured chef would cook,
There, Theo. with orchids in every nook,
There Archie helped capture many a crook
With serious solemnity.

It was a miracle of rare device,
a sunny brownstone with caves of ice!
A Frigidaire!

He built that Brownstone in the air
A sunny dome! Those caves of ice!
And all who hear should see him there,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise:
Fritz’s fare!