I have it on the best antiquarian authority.
Golden lamps totter drunkenly
In the autumn chill;
Should we not do likewise,
we whose little lamps
will gutter in Winter’s breath?
Torvald — large, loutish and ungainly — decided earlier this morning that he needed to get down from the mantelpiece in a tearing hurry. Owing to prudent habits, I was able to replace the original shade, whose fragments are still turning up in odd places, but the lamp standard itself seems awkwardly hors de combat. I ordered a new one from Overstock.
Really: Li Po would have liked the air breathing through the screens of my sun porch, a few days past the Harvest Moon. And my lamp.