Where Are They All Departed, The Loved Ones Of My Youth, Those Emblems White Of Purity, Sweet Innocence And Truth? When Day-Light Drives The Darkness, When Evening Melts To Night, When Noon-Day Suns Burn Brightest, They Come Not To My Sight. I Miss Their Pure Embraces Around My Neck And Throat, The Thousand Winning Graces Whereon I Used To Dote. I Know I May Find Markets Where Love Is Bought And Sold, But No Such Love Can Equal The Tender Ties Of Old. My Gentle Washer-Woman, I Know That You Are True; The Least Shade Of Suspicion Can Never Fall On You. Then Fear Me Not, As Fiercely I Fix On Thee Stern Eyes, And Ask In Terms Emphatic, "Where Are My Lost White Ties?" Each Year I Buy A Dozen, Yet Scarce A Year Is Gone, Ere, Looking In My Ward-Robe, I Find That I Have None. I Don't Believe In Magic, I Know That You Are True, Yet Say, My Washer-Woman, What Can Those White Ties Do? Does Each With Her Own Collar To Regions Far Elope, Regions By Starch Untainted, And Innocent Of Soap? I Know Not; But In Future I'll Buy No More White Ties, But Wear The Stiff 'All-Rounder' Of Ritualistic Guise.