Tea At The Pittsburg Public Library

My cousin lives in Pittsburg, Kansas and visits the public library there quite frequently. She recently got a hold of me to let John and I know that they were going to be having a 'Downton Abbey' tea there and wondered if we'd like to come. We reserved our spot and attended the tea this afternoon, and we were so glad that we did! We had a great time! There was plenty of tea, lots of goodies, a harpist, and Englishman, Rob Smith, who read poetry suitable for the occasion. Below are a few photographs and some of the poems that our English friend shared with us today.

John and I, my cousin, Nancy, and our mutual friend, Kelley.

Our 'Downton Abbey' Tea Hostess

Our Servers 

Harpist Tammy Wilcox

Harpist Tammy Wilcox

Our English Poetry Reader, Rob Smith, and Another Guest

A Cup of Tea by Anonymous

When the world is all at odds
And the mind is all at sea
Then cease the useless tedium
And brew a cup of tea.
There is magic in its fragrance,
There is solace in its taste;
And the laden moments vanish
Somehow into space.
The world becomes a lovely thing!
There’s beauty as you’ll see;
All because you briefly stopped
To brew a cup of tea.

Crumpets and Tea by Eugene Field

There are happenings in life that are destined to rise
Like dear, hallowed visions before a man’s eyes;
And the passage of years shall not dim in the least
The glory and joy of our Sabbath-day feast,—
The Sabbath-day luncheon that ’s spread for us three,—
My worthy companions, Teresa and Leigh,
And me, all so hungry for crumpets and tea.

There are cynics who say with invidious zest
That a crumpet’s a thing that will never digest;
But I happen to know that a crumpet is prime
For digestion, if only you give it its time.
Or if, by a chance, it should not quite agree,
Why, who would begrudge a physician his fee
For plying his trade upon crumpets and tea?

To toast crumpets quite à la mode, I require
A proper long fork and a proper quick fire;
And when they are browned, without further ado,
I put on the butter, that soaks through and through.
And meantime Teresa, directed by Leigh,
Compounds and |xnirs out a rich brew for us three;
And so we sit down to our crumpets—and tea.

A hand-organ grinds in the street a weird bit,—
Confound those Italians! I wish they would quit
Interrupting our feast with their dolorous airs,
Suggestive of climbing the heavenly stairs.
(It ’s thoughts of the future, as all will agree,
That we fain would dismiss from our bosoms when we
Sit down to discussion of crumpets and tea!)

The Sabbath-day luncheon whereof I now speak
Quite answers its purpose the rest of the week;
Yet with the next Sabbath I wait for the bell
Announcing the man who has crumpets to sell;
Then I scuttle downstairs in a frenzy of glee,
And purchase for sixpence enough for us three,
Who hunger and hanker for crumpets and tea.

But soon—ah! too soon—I must bid a farewell
To joys that succeed to the sound of that bell,
Must hie me away from the dank, foggy shore
That’s filled me with colic and—yearnings for more!
Then the cruel, the heartless, the conscienceless sea
Shall bear me afar from Teresa and Leigh
And the other twin friendships of crumpets and tea.

Yet often, ay, ever, before my wan eyes
That Sabbath-day luncheon of old shall arise.
My stomach, perhaps, shall improve by the change,
Since crumpets it seems to prefer at long range;
But, oh, how my palate will hanker to be
In London again with Teresa and Leigh,
Enjoying the rapture of crumpets and tea!

Ode To Tea by Richard Trott Fisher

O TEA! so fresh, so delicately fragrant,
So never palling, pure and comfortable!
Truly thy birth-place is well named Celestial,
        For thou dost bear
A type of heaven graven in thy nature:
        I read it there.

Thou art no Siren luring us to danger:
Unlike thy sister of the sunny hillside,
The flaunty Vine, who pours her sparkling nectar
        Of heavenly smell,
While in the bowl there lurks invisible
        A smack of hell:

Pregnant of wild desire and frantic folly,
And fairy sounds that seem to chaunt our names
And welcome us to brilliant enterprise;
        While in the air
A painted beacon tempts us to the swamp
        Of sad Despair.

But Tea! thou innocent, that, like a child
Playing before us, mak’st the world look gay!
With thee the maid may trust her forward fancy;
        The matron sage
May safely count with thee her oft-told reckoning
        Of bygone age.

For thee the weakling tossing on his pillow
With nervous longing watches in the morning:
The tinkling cup strikes on his ear like music;
        Thy odorous breath
Wafted around redeems his flagging spirit,
        As if from death.

To me, who wander idly down life’s byways,
Thou art the spring of health and fantasy.
So morn and evening will I court thy presence,
        To pay my vow;
And fondly linger at thy pleasant fountain,
        As I do now.