Chapter I: Remember

That November
When the new November child
On this old world woke and smiled.

II

Here’s a woman,
Sweet and human,
And they call her Janet, now,—
I can’t make it out, I vow

III

It only seems
One night of dreams;
Years they say; how _do_ they plan it?
What’s become of Little Janet?

IV

Never mind;
She’s good; she’s kind;
Age can never bend or win her;
There’s a heart of youth within her.
_Richard Watson Gilder._

FOR A FAN

EACH of us answers to a call;
Master or mistress have we all.
I belong to lovely Anne;
Dost thou wish _thou_ wert a fan?
Thus to be treasured, thus to be prest,
Pleasuring thus, and thus caressed?
_Richard Watson Gilder._

BALLADE OF SUMMER

WHEN strawberry pottles are common and cheap,
Ere elms be black, or limes be sere,
When midnight dances are murdering sleep,
Then comes in the sweet o’ the year
And far from Fleet Street, far from here,
The Summer is Queen in the length of the land,
And moonlit nights they are soft and clear,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

When clamour that doves in the lindens keep
Mingles with musical plash of the weir,
Where drowned green tresses of crowsfeet creep,
Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!
And better a crust and a beaker of beer,
With rose hung hedges on either hand,
Than a palace in town and a prince’s cheer,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

When big trout late in the twilight leap,
When cuckoo clamoureth far and near,
When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,
Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!
And it’s oh to sail, with the wind to steer,
While kine knee-deep in the water stand,
On a highland loch, on a Lowland mere,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

ENVOY

Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here,
Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!
And the summer runs out, like grains of sand,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
_Andrew Lang._

COLINETTE

FRANCE your country, as we know;
Room enough for guessing yet,
What lips now or long ago,
Kissed and named you—Colinette.
In what fields from sea to sea,
By what stream your home was set,
Loire or Seine was glad of thee,
Marne or Rhone, O Colinette?

Did you stand with “maidens ten,
Fairer maids were never seen,”
When the young king and his men
Passed among the orchards green?
Nay, old ballads have a note
Mournful we would fain forget;
No such sad old air should float
Round your young brows, Colinette.

Say, did Ronsard sing to you.
Shepherdess to lull his pain,
When the court went wandering through
Rose pleasances of Touraine?
Ronsard and his famous Rose
Long are dust the breezes fret;
You, within the garden close,
You are blooming, Colinette.

Have I seen you proud and gay,
With a patched and perfumed beau,
Dancing through the summer day,
Misty summer of Watteau?
Nay, so sweet a maid as you
Never walked a minuet
With the splendid courtly crew;
Nay, forgive me, Colinette.

Not from Greuze’s canvases
Do you cast a glance, a smile;
You are not as one of these,
Yours is beauty without guile.
Round your maiden brows and hair
Maidenhood and Childhood met,
Crown and kiss you, sweet and fair,
New art’s blossom, Colinette.
_Andrew Lang._

BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES

(_After Villon_)

NAY, tell me now in what strange air
The Roman Flora dwells to-day;
Where Archippiada hides, and where
Beautiful Thais has passed away?
Whence answers Echo, afield, astray,
By mere or stream,—around, below?
Lovelier she than a woman of clay;
Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

Where is wise Héloise, that care
Brought on Abeilard, and dismay?
All for her love he found a snare,
A maimed poor monk in orders grey;
And where’s the Queen who willed to slay
Buridan, that in a sack must go
Afloat down Seine,—a perilous way—
Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

Where’s that White Queen, a lily rare,
With her sweet song, the Siren’s lay?
Where’s Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair?
Alys and Ermengarde, where are they?
Good Joan, whom English did betray
In Rouen town, and burned her? No,
Maiden and Queen, no man may say;
Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

ENVOY

Prince, all this week thou need’st not pray,
Nor yet this year the thing to know.
One burden answers, ever and aye,
“Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?”
_Andrew Lang._

IL BACIO

KISS! Hollyhock in Love’s luxuriant close!
Brisk music played on pearly little keys;
In tempo with the witching melodies
Love in the ardent heart repeating goes.

Sonorous, graceful Kiss, hail! Kiss divine!
Unequalled boon, unutterable bliss!
Man, bent o’er thine enthralling chalice, Kiss,
Grows drunken with a rapture only thine!

Thou comfortest as music does, and wine,
And grief dies smothered in thy purple fold.
Let one greater than I, Kiss, and more bold,
Rear thee a classic, monumental line.

Humble Parisian bard, this infantile
Bouquet of rhymes I tender half in fear. . . .
Be gracious, and in guerdon, on the dear
Red lips of One I know, a light and smile!
_Paul Verlaine._

SUR L’HERBE

“THE abbé rambles.”—“You, marquis,
Have put your wig on all awry.”—
“This wine of Cypress kindles me
Less, my Camargo, than your eye!”

“My passion”—“Do, mi, sol, la, si.”—
“Abbé, your villainy lies bare.”—
“Mesdames, I climb up yonder tree
And fetch a star down, I declare.”

“Let each kiss his own lady, then
The others.”—“Would that I were, too,
A lap-dog!”—“Softly, gentlemen!”—
“Do, mi.”—“The moon!—Hey, how d’ye do?”
_Paul Verlaine._

THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE

HERE on my desk it lies,
Here as the daylight dies,
One small glove just her size—
Six and a quarter;
Pearly gray, a colour neat,
_Deux boutons_ all complete,
Faint scented, soft and sweet;
Could glove be smarter?

Can I the day forget,
Years ago, when the pet
Gave it me?—where we met
Still I remember;
Then ’twas the summer time;
Now as I write this rhyme
Children love pantomime—
’Tis December.

Fancy my boyish bliss
Then when she gave me this,
And how the frequent kiss
Crumpled its fingers;
Then she was fair and kind,
Now, when I’ve changed my mind,
Still some scent undefined
On the glove lingers.

Though she’s a matron sage,
Yet I have kept the gage;
While, as I pen this page,
Still comes a goddess,
Her eldest daughter, fair,
With the same eyes and hair;
Happy the arm I swear,
That clasps her bodice.

Heaven grant her fate be bright,
And her step ever light
As it will be to-night,
First in the dances.
Why did her mother prove
False when I dared to love?
Zounds! I shall burn the glove!
This my romance is.
_H. Savile Clarke._

IF

OH, if the world were mine, Love,
I’d give the world for thee!
Alas! there is no sign, Love,
Of that contingency.

Were I a king—which isn’t
To be considered now,—
A diadem had glistened
Upon thy lovely brow.

Had fame with laurels crowned me,—
She hasn’t up to date,—
Nor time nor change had found me
To love and thee ingrate.

If death threw down his gage, Love,
Though Life is dear to me,
I’d die, e’en of old age, Love,
To win a smile from thee.

But being poor we part, Dear,
And love, sweet love, must die,—
Thou wilt not break thy heart, Dear;
No more, I think, shall I.
_James Jeffrey Roche._

DON’T

YOUR eyes were made for laughter,
Sorrow befits them not;
Would you be blithe hereafter,
Avoid the lover’s lot.

The rose and lily blended
Possess your cheeks so fair;
Care never was intended
To leave his furrows there.

Your heart was not created
To fret itself away,
Being unduly mated
To common human clay.

But hearts were made for loving,—
Confound philosophy!
Forget what I’ve been proving,
Sweet Phyllis, and love me.
_James Jeffrey Roche._

ON REREADING TÉLÉMAQUE

“_Calypso could not console herself_”