Chapter I: LOVED a maid (oh, she was fair of face!)

But common words above
Was my true love—
So I was silent for a little space—
Yet, ’gainst the day I meant that she should hear me,
I sought for stately words that might endear me.

My ardent lips, I vowed, should not repeat
What countless lovers swear:—
“Oh, thou art fair!”
I scorned to merely say, “I love thee, Sweet!”
So spent long days with rhetoric and tutor,
In framing sentences I dreamed might suit her.

Oh, how I pondered what she best might hear!
Words should like jewels shine
To make her mine—
No commonplaces must offend her ear:
But while for proper words my passion tarried
I learned the maiden some one else had married!
_Margaret Deland._

THE BLUEBELL

IN love she fell,
My shy Bluebell,
With a strolling Bumblebee;
“I love you so,”
He whispered low,
“Sweet, give your heart to me!”

“I love but you,
And I’ll be true,
Oh, give me your heart, I pray?”
She bent her head,—
“I will,” she said;
When, lo, he flew away!
_Margaret Deland._

A MODERN MARTYRDOM

THE Weverwend Awthur Murway Gween,
They say is verwy clevah;
And sister Wuth could heah him pweach,
Fohevah and fohevah.
And I went down to heah him pweach,
With Wuth and my Annette,
Upon the bwave, hewoic deaths
The ancient mawtahs met;
And as he wepwesented them,
In all their acts and feachaws,
The ancient mawtahs, dontcherknow?
Were doocid clevah cweachaws.

But, aw deah me! They don’t compah
In twue hewoic bwavewy,
To a bwave hewo fwiend of mine,
Young Montmowenci Averwy.
He earned foah dollahs everwy week,
And not anothah coppah;
But this bwave soul wesolved to dwess
Pwe-eminently pwoppah.
So this was all the food each day,
The bwave young cweachaw had—
One glaws of milk, a cigawette,
Foah cwackers, and some bwead.

He lived on foahteen cents a day,
And cherwished one great passion:
The pwecious pwoject of his soul,
Of being dwessed in fashion.
But when he’d earned a suit entiah,
To his supweme chagwin,
Just then did shawt-tailed coats go out,
And long-tailed coats come in;
But naught could bweak his wigid will
And now, I pway you, note,
That he gave up his glaws of milk
And bought a long-tailed coat.

But then the fashion changed once moah,
And bwought a gwievous plight;
It changed from twousers that are loose
To twousers that are tight.
Then his foah cwackers he gave up,
He just wenounced their use;
And changed to twousers that are tight
From twousers that are loose.
And then the narrow-toed style shoes
To bwoad-toed changed instead;
Then he pwocured a bwoad-toed paih,
And gave up eating bwead.

Just then the bwoad-bwimmed style of hat
To narrow bwims gave way;
And so his twibulations gwew,
Incweasing everwy day.
But he pwocured a narrow bwim,
Of verwy stylish set;
But bwave, bwave soul! he had to dwop
His pwecious cigawette.
But now when his whole suit confohmed
To fashion’s wegulation
For lack of cwackers, milk, and bwead,
He perwished of stahvation.

Thus in his owah of victowry,
He passed on to his west—
I weally nevah saw a cawpse
So fashionably dwessed.
My teahs above his well-dwessed clay
Fell like the spwingtime wains;
My eyes had nevah wested on
Such pwoppah dwessed wemains.
The ancient mawtahs—they were gwand
And glowious in their day;
But this bwave Montmowenci was
As gweat and gwand as they.
_Sam Walter Foss._

A CORSAGE BOUQUET

MYRTILLA, to-night,
Wears Jacqueminot roses,
She’s the loveliest sight!
Myrtilla to-night:—
Correspondingly light
My pocket-book closes.
Myrtilla, to-night
Wears Jacqueminot roses.
_Charles Henry Lüders._

THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA BROWN

THOUGH I met her in the summer, when one’s heart lies ‘round at ease
As it were in tennis costume, and a man’s not hard to please;
Yet I think at any season to have met her was to love,
While her tones, unspoiled, unstudied, had the softness of the dove.

At request she read us poems, in a nook among the pines,
And her artless voice lent music to the least melodious lines;
Though she lowered her shadowing lashes, in an earnest reader’s
wise,
Yet we caught blue gracious glimpses of the heavens that were her
eyes.

As in Paradise I listened. Ah, I did not understand
That a little cloud, no larger than the average human hand,
Might, as stated oft in fiction, spread into a sable pall,
When she said that she should study elocution in the fall.

I admit her earliest efforts were not in the Ercles vein:
She began with “Lit-tle Maaybel, with her faayce against the paayne,
And the beacon-light a-trrremble—” which, although it made me wince,
Is a thing of cheerful nature to the things she’s rendered since.

Having learned the Soulful Quiver, she acquired the Melting Mo-o-an,
And the way she gave “Young Grayhead” would have liquefied a stone;
Then the Sanguinary Tragic did her energies employ,
And she tore my taste to tatters when she slew “The Polish Boy.”

It’s not pleasant for a fellow when the jewel of his soul
Wades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs in frenzy
roll:
What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me grievous pain,
When she rose in social gatherings and “searched among the slain.”

I was forced to look upon her, in my desperation dumb—
Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was come
She would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very least—
As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast.

Once, ah! once I fell a-dreaming; some one played a polonaise
I associated strongly with those happier August days;
And I mused, “I’ll speak this evening,” recent pangs forgotten
quite.
Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish: “Curfew SHALL not ring
to-night!”

Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy warm romance!
Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in France?
Oh, as she “cull-imbed” that ladder, swift my mounting hope came
down.
I am still a single cynic; she is still Cassandra Brown!
_Helen Gray Cone._

FROM THREE FLY LEAVES

AH Phyllis! did I only dare
To hope that, as the years go by,
And you, a maid divinely fair,
The cynosure of every eye,
Have fixed the wandering minds of men,
And found a fare for scores of hearses,
You still will open, now and then,
My little book of verses;

Or did I, bolder yet, aspire
To hope that any phrase of mine,
Aglow with memory’s cheering fire
Will burn within that heart of thine;
Although my brow be bare of bays,
My coffers not replete with gain,
I shall not—what’s the foolish phrase?—
Have written quite in vain.
_J. K. Stephen._

QUESTION AND ANSWER

THE QUESTION

THE river is flowing,
The stars coming forth:
Great ruddy clouds going
From westward to north.

The rushes are waving,
The water’s still blue:
And I am behaving
Decorously too:

The amorous zephyr
Breathes soft in our ear:
Who hears not is deafer
Than adders, my dear:

Ah! list to the whisper
Of waters and sky!
Thames, vagabond lisper
Grows subtle and sly.

How trebly delicious
The air-draughts we quaff:
The hour is propitious:—
Oh! ... why do you laugh?

THE ANSWER

Ask the sky why it flushes,
The clouds why they glow:
The weir why it gushes,
The reeds why they grow:

The moon why it rises,
The sun why it sets:
Her why she surprises,
Him why he forgets:

The star why it twinkles,
The west why it shines:
The brow why it wrinkles,
The heart why it pines:

Mankind why they blunder,
The corn why there’s chaff:
Ask yourself why you wonder—
Not me why I laugh!
_J. K. Stephen._

A RHYME FOR PRISCILLA

DEAR Priscilla, quaint and very
Like a modern Puritan,
Is a modest, literary,
Merry young American:
Horace she has read, and Bion
Is her favorite in Greek;
Shakespeare is a mighty lion
In whose den she dares but peek;
Him she leaves to some sage Daniel,
Since of lions she’s afraid,—
She prefers a playful spaniel,
Such as Herrick or as Praed;
And it’s not a bit satiric
To confess her fancy goes
From the epic to a lyric
On a rose.

Wise Priscilla, dilettante,
With a sentimental mind,
Doesn’t deign to dip in Dante
And to Milton isn’t kind;
L’Allegro, Il Penseroso
Have some merits she will grant,
All the rest is only so-so,—
Enter Paradise she can’t!
She might make a charming angel
(And she will if she is good),
But it’s doubtful if the change’ll
Make the Epic understood:
Honey-suckling, like a bee she
Goes and pillages his sweets,
And it’s plain enough to see she
Worships Keats.

Gay Priscilla,—just the person
For the Locker whom she loves;
What a captivating verse on
Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves
He could write in catching measure,
Setting all the heart astir!
And to Aldrich what a pleasure
It would be to sing of her,—
He, whose perfect songs have won her
Lips to quote them day by day.
She repeats the rhymes of Bunner
In a fascinating way,
And you’ll often find her lost in—
She has reveries at times—
Some delightful one of Austin
Dobson’s rhymes.

O Priscilla, sweet Priscilla,
Writing of you makes me think,
As I burn my brown Manila
And immortalize my ink,
How well satisfied these poets
Ought to be with what they do
When, especially, they know it’s
Read by such a girl as you:
I who sing of you would marry
Just the kind of girl you are,—
One who doesn’t care to carry
Her poetic taste too far,—
One whose fancy is a bright one,
Who is fond of poems fine,
And appreciates a light one
Such as mine.
_Frank Dempster Sherman._

THE OLD COLLECTOR

’TIS strange to look across the street
And feel that we no more shall greet
Our middle-aged, precise, and neat,
Old-fashioned neighbor.
It seems, in his unlighted hall,
His much-prized pictures on the wall
Must miss his presence, and recall
His loving labor.

His manner was serene and fine,
Fashioned on some Old-World design.
His wit grew keener with the wine,
And kindlier after;
And when the revelry rang high,
No one could make more apt reply;
Yet, though they sometimes marked his sigh,
None heard his laughter.

He held as foolish him who dotes
On politics or petticoats;
He vowed he’d hear no talk of votes
Or silly scandals.
No journeys tempted him; he swore
He held his world within his door,
And there he’d dwell till life was o’er,
Secure from vandals.

“Why should I roam the world again?”
He said. “Domingo shows me Spain;
The dust of travel then were vain.
What springtime chances
To match my Corot there! One glance
Is worth a year of actual France.
The real ne’er equals the romance,
Nor fact our fancies.”

His walls were decked with maidens fair—
A Henner with rich auburn hair;
A Reynolds with the stately air
That fits a beauty;
There glanced a Greuze with girlish grace;
And yonder, with the strong, calm face,
The peasant sister of her race,
Whose life is duty.

He valued most the sunny day
Because it lighted his Dupré,
And showed his small Meissonier
In proper fashion.
And tender was the glance he bent
Upon his missal’s ornament,
Whereon some patient monk had spent
His artist passion.

I used to love to see him pass
His fingers o’er some rare old glass.
He never took delight _en masse_;
He loved each treasure:
The precious bronzes from Japan,
The rugs from towered Ispahan,
His rose-tint Sèvres, his famous fan—
Each had its pleasure.

And so he held that Art was all;
Yet when Death made the solemn call,
Before the desk in his long hall
They found him sitting.
Within the hands clasped on his breast
An old daguerreotype was pressed—
A sweet-faced, smiling girl, and dressed
In frills befitting.

Naught of his story can we know,
Nor whose the fault so long ago,
Nor with what meed of weal or woe
His love was blended.
Yet o’er his rare Delft mantel-tiles
Bellini’s sweet Madonna smiles
As though she knew the weary miles
For him are ended.
_Beatrice Hanscom._

THE LAST DITCH

LOVE, through your varied views on Art
Untiring have I followed you,
Content to know I had your heart
And was your Art-ideal, too.

As, dear, I was when first we met.
(’Twas at the time you worshipped Leighton,
And were attempting to forget
Your Foster and your Noel Paton.)

“Love rhymes with Art,” said your dear voice,
And, at my crude, uncultured age,
I could but blushingly rejoice
That you had passed the Rubens stage.

When Madox Brown and Morris swayed
Your taste, did I not dress and look
Like any Middle Ages maid
In an illuminated book?

I wore strange garments, without shame,
Of formless form and toneless tones,
I might have stepped out of the frame
Of a Rossetti or Burne-Jones.

I stole soft frills from Marcus Stone,
My waist wore Herkomer’s disguise,
My slender purse was strained, I own,
But—my silk lay as Sargent’s lies.

And when you were abroad—in Prague—
’Mid Cherets I had shone, a star;
Then for your sake I grew as vague
As Mr. Whistler’s ladies are.

But now at last you sue in vain,
For here a life’s submission ends:
Not even for you will I grow plain
As Aubrey Beardsley’s “lady friends.”

Here I renounce your hand—unless
You find your Art-ideal elsewhere;
I _will not_ wear the kind of dress
That Laurence Housman’s people wear!
_E. Nesbit._

BE YE IN LOVE WITH APRIL-TIDE

BE ye in love with April-tide?
I’ faith, in love am I!
For now ’tis sun, and now ’tis shower,
And now ’tis frost, and now ’tis flower,
And now ’tis Laura laughing-eyed,
And now ’tis Laura shy!

Ye doubtful days, O slower glide!
Still smile and frown, O sky!
Some beauty unforeseen I trace
In every change of Laura’s face;—
Be ye in love with April-tide?
I’ faith, in love am I!
_Clinton Scollard._

STRAWBERRIES

AGAIN the year is at the prime
With flush of rose and cuckoo-croon;
Care doffs his wrinkled air, and Time
Foots to a gamesome tune.
So, ho, my lads, an’ if you will
But follow underneath the hill,
It’s strawberries! strawberries!
You shall feast, and have your fill!

The elder clusters promise wine
Where dips the path along the lane;
The early lowing of the kine
Floats in a far refrain;
You will forget to dream indeed
Of fruit that Georgian loam-lands breed
In strawberries! strawberries!
That wait for us in Martin’s mead.

Then haste, before the sun be high,
And, haply, catch the morning star;
For, ere the cups of dew be dry,
The berries sweetest are.
And if, perchance, a rustic lass
In merriment a-milking pass,
It’s strawberries! strawberries!
On her lips as in the grass.
_Clinton Scollard._

APPLIED ASTRONOMY

HE took me out to see the stars,
That astronomic bore;
He said there were two moons near Mars,
While Jupiter had four.

I thought of course he’d whisper soon
What fourfold bliss ’twould be
To stroll beneath that fourfold moon
On Jupiter with me.

And when he spoke of Saturn’s ring,
I was convinced he’d say
That was the very kind of thing
To offer me some day.

But in a tangent off he went
To double stars. Now that
Was most suggestive, so content
And quite absorbed I sat.

But no, he talked a dreary mess,
Of which the only fraction
That caught my fancy, I confess,
Was “mutual attraction.”

I said I thought it very queer
And stupid altogether,
For stars to keep so very near,
And yet not come together.

At that he smiled, and turned his head;
I thought he’d caught the notion.
He merely bowed good-night and said,
Their safety lay in motion.
_Esther B. Tiffany._

COURTSHIP

IT chanced, they say, upon a day,
A furlong from the town,
That she was strolling up the way
As he was strolling down—
She humming low, as might be so,
A ditty sweet and small;
He whistling loud a tune, you know,
That had no tune at all.
It happened so—precisely so—
As all their friends and neighbours know.

As I and you perhaps might do,
They gazed upon the ground;
But when they’d gone a yard or two
Of course they both looked round.
They both were pained, they both explained
What caused their eyes to roam;
And nothing after that remained
But he should see her home.
It happened so—precisely so
As all their friends and neighbours know.

Next day to that ’twas common chat,
Admitting no debate,
A bonnet close beside a hat
Was sitting on a gate.
A month, not more, had bustled o’er,
When, braving nod and smile,
One blushing soul came through the door
Where two went up the aisle.
It happened so—precisely so—
As all their friends and neighbours know.
_Frederick Langbridge._

EYES OF BLACK AND EYES OF BLUE

(_From the Viceroy_)

ONE day I swear by the eyes of black,
The next by the eyes of blue;
’Tis in merry black eyes that the love-light lies,
But the blue are more apt to be true.
The dusky-eyed maid has a laughing look
That can make you the world forget, my boy;
But the gentle blue eye never causes a sigh,
And it rarely denotes the coquette, my boy.

Eyes of black or eyes of blue,
Devil a bit does it matter I say!
If I love one to-day, why to-morrow I may
Have a caprice for the brown or the gray.
So here is a toast to the feminine host,
The blue eyes for me or the black for you.
The one for a time I shall think sublime,
And then if you like I will change with you.

One day I sing of the raven curls,
The next of the ringlets fair.
Be mine the brunette of the tresses jet,
Mine the Hebe of golden hair.
For the gypsy-like maid has a heart that’s warm,
You are lucky indeed if you’re hers, my boy;
But there’s many a blonde can be equally fond,
If you’re only the one she prefers, my boy.

Raven hair or hair of gold,
Devil a bit does it matter I say!
If I love one to-day, why to-morrow I may
Have a caprice for the auburn gay;
So here is a toast to the feminine host,
Blond ringlets for me and the black for you.
The one for a time I shall think sublime,
And then if you like I will change with you.
_Harry B. Smith._

HER FAULTS

(_From the Mandarin_)

MY sweetheart has her faults in plenty,
Which I perceive with much distress;
For instance, she is only twenty,
And one would think her even less;
While I may mention it between us—
(Excuse the confidence betrayed)—
Her form is plagiarized from Venus,
And no acknowledgment is made.
Her hair is much too fine and curly;
Her lips are merely Cupid’s bow;
Her teeth absurdly white and pearly;
But still we all have faults, you know.

So, spite of this and spite of that,
Whate’er betide, whate’er befall,
These things let others cavil at;
I love my sweetheart, faults and all.

From such defects this little lady
Of mine is anything but free.
Her lashes are “extremely shady,”
Her eyes are “much too deep for me.”
Two dimples have been thought too many
For one small maiden to possess.

Her rivals wish she hadn’t any;
But what’s a dimple more or less?
Her voice attracts o’er much attention
Because of its melodious ring.
Her foot—but that I shall not mention—
It’s such a very little thing.

Yes, spite of that and spite of this,
Whate’er betide, whate’er befall,
Though others may perfection miss,
I love my sweetheart, faults and all.
_Harry B. Smith._

A MODERN DIALOGUE

SCENE—_On Manhattan Island._ _Time—To-day._

_Hour—Ten-thirty._ _Persons of the play:_

SIBYL. _A dream of beauty, half awake,
In filmy disarray—about to take
Her morning tub. In speech with her the while
Is _ROBERT._ He is dressed in riding style._

SIBYL—Why, Bob, it’s _you_! They got your name all wrong.
I’m sorry that I made you wait so long.

BOB— Only six minutes by my watch—it’s true
A minute seems a year, awaiting you!
But Time is merciful and I rejoice
That I am still alive to hear your voice.

SIBYL—A very pretty speech, for you, indeed.
But what extenuation can you plead
For waking ladies at the break of day
From peaceful slumbers, sir!

BOB— Oh, come, I say!
It’s half-past ten!

SIBYL— Well, it was nearly three
Before I got to bed!

BOB— Good gracious me!
I’m sure I’d no idea it was so late.
Why, I was riding in the Park at eight
And looked for you. I own I felt abused;
Last night you said——

SIBYL— I beg to be excused
From keeping foolish promises, when made
At two A. M., by moonlight. I’m afraid
My memory’s no better than a sieve.
So you expected me? The Lord forgive
Your trusting soul!

BOB— It is His _metier_!

SIBYL—Don’t be outrageous, or I’ll run away.

BOB— Ah, no; don’t go. I will be good, I swear!
’Twas a quotation, Heine, or Voltaire,
Or some fool cynic fellow. By the way,
If you have nothing on, what do you say
To breakfasting with Peg and me at noon
At the Casino?

SIBYL— Well, that’s rather soon;
I can’t be ready for an hour or more.

BOB— Come as you are, you know that I adore
Your ladyship in any sort of gown;
Besides, there’s not another soul in town.
Come as you are; there’ll only be we three.

SIBYL—Well, I like that! It’s fortunate for me
This is a telephone, and not that new
Invention one can talk and _see_ through, too!
What’s that you said?

BOB— I didn’t speak at all
I only _thought_.

SIBYL— Well, _don’t_! Suppose we call
The breakfast half-past one instead of noon?

BOB (_joyously_)—
Then you will come?

SIBYL— I swear!

BOB— Not by the moon?

SIBYL (_laughing_)—
No, you may count on me. Now I must fly.
One-thirty—don’t forget—Good by!

BOB— Good by!
(_They ring off._)

_Oliver Herford._

THE POET’S PROPOSAL

“PHYLLIS, if I could I’d paint you
As I see you sitting there,
You distracting little saint, you,
With your aureole of hair.
If I only were an artist,
And such glances could be caught,
You should have the very smartest
Picture frame that can be bought!

“Phyllis, since I can’t depict your
Charms, or give you aught but fame,
Will you be yourself the picture?
Will you let me be the frame?
Whose protecting clasp may bind you
Always——”

“Nay,” cried Phyllis; “hold,
Or you’ll force me to remind you
Paintings must be framed with gold!”
_Oliver Herford._

TRUTH

PERMIT me, madame, to declare
That I never will compare
Eyes of yours to Starlight cold,
Or your locks to Sunlight’s gold,
Or your lips, I’d have you know,
To the crimson Jacqueminot.

Stuff like that’s all very fine
When you get so much a line;
Since I don’t, I scorn to tell
Flattering lies. I like too well
Sun and Stars and Jacqueminot
To flatter them, I’d have you know.
_Oliver Herford._

THE BACHELOR GIRL

HERE’S to the Bachelor Girl
Who fain her charms would cloister.
She is a precious pearl
That will not leave the oyster.
She is a proud sweet-pea
That scorns to be a vine,
And lean upon a tree
Or round a stick entwine.
“What! lean upon a stick!
Oh, no! I’m not that sort—
I will grow branches thick
And be my own support!”
Beware, O pearl of price,
Lest you be cast to swine;
O proud sweet-pea, think twice
Ere you refuse to twine!
O Bachelor Girl, we drink
Confusion to your plan;
Beware, lest Fate shall link
You to a Spinster Man!

O change, ere ’tis too late,
The Choker tall and silly,
The tweeds—the hat we hate,
For something soft and frilly!
Take off the stockings blue,
(We will avert our gaze),
Then will we drink to you
Long life—and happy days!
_Oliver Herford._

THE SEA

SHE was rich, and of high degree;
A poor and unknown artist he.
“Paint me,” she said, “a view of the sea.”

So he painted the sea as it looked the day
That Aphrodite arose from its spray;
And it broke, as she gazed on its face the while,
Into its countless-dimpled smile.
“What a poky, stupid picture!” said she;
“I don’t believe he can paint the sea!”

Then he painted a raging, tossing sea,
Storming, with fierce and sudden shock,
Wild cries, and writhing tongues of foam,
A towering, mighty fastness-rock.
In its sides, above those leaping crests,
The thronging sea-birds built their nests.
“What a disagreeable daub!” said she;
“Why, it isn’t anything like the sea!”

Then he painted a stretch of hot, brown sand,
With a big hotel on either hand
And a handsome pavilion for the band—
Not a sign of the water to be seen
Except one faint little streak of green.
“What a perfectly exquisite picture!” said she;
“It’s the very image of the sea!”
_Eva L. Ogden._

IN PHILISTIA

OF all the places on the map,
Some queer and others queerer,
Arcadia is dear to me,
Philistia is dearer.

There dwell the few who never knew
The pangs of heavenly hunger,
As fresh and fair and fond and frail
As when the world was younger.

If there is any sweeter sound
Than bobolinks or thrushes,
It is the frou-frou of their silks—
The roll of their barouches.

I love them even when they’re good,
As well as when they’re sinners—
When they are sad and worldly wise
And when they are beginners.

(I say I do; of course the fact,
For better or for worse, is,
My unerratic life denies
My too erotic verses).

I dote upon their waywardness,
Their foibles and their follies.
If there’s a madder pate than Di’s,
Perhaps it may be Dolly’s.

They have no “problems” to discuss,
No “theories” to discover;
They are not “new;” and I—I am
Their very grateful lover.

I care not if their minds confuse
Alastor with Aladdin;
And Cimabue is far less
To them than Chimmie Fadden.

They never heard of William Blake,
Nor saw a Botticelli;
Yet one is, “Yours till death, Louise,”
And one, “Your loving Nelly.”

They never tease me for my views,
Nor tax me with my grammar;
Nor test me on the latest news,
Until I have to stammer.

They never talk about their “moods,”
They never know they have them;
The world is good enough for them,
And that is why I love them.

They never puzzle me with Greek,
Nor drive me mad with Ibsen;
Yet over forms as fair as Eve’s
They wear the gowns of Gibson.
_Bliss Carman._

BETWEEN THE SHOWERS

Between the showers I went my way,
The glistening street was bright with flowers;
It seemed that March had turned to May
Between the showers.

Above the shining roofs and towers
The blue broke forth athwart the gray;
Birds carolled in their leafless bowers.

Hither and thither, swift and gay,
The people chased the changeful hours;
And you, you passed and smiled that day,
Between the showers.
_Amy Levy._

GRACE’S CHOICE

WHEN first I saw fair-featured Grace,
In dainty tailor-fashioned gown,
I fell in love with her sweet face,
And pooh-poohed at her escort, Brown.
The fellow’s rich, but such a clown!
I did not fear he’d rival me—
I, Reginald de Courcy Drowne,
With wealth and—looks and pedigree.

I set the man a red-hot pace;
It was the talk of all the town;
I knew that I was loved by Grace—
I knew it by that yokel’s frown.
My ancestors won great renown,
While Brown has no ancestral tree.
I knew I could the fellow down,
With wealth and—looks and pedigree.

She’s married now; has rare point lace,
And jewels fit to deck a crown.
The man who calls her “darling Grace,”
Is not the fellow they call Brown.
No, I’m the happiest man in town.
I knew she’d not say no to me,
One rarely sees Dame Fortune frown
On wealth and—looks and pedigree.

ENVOY

You thought that Grace would marry Brown,
As in most ballades that you see,
But she did not. For her no clown—
But wealth and—looks and pedigree.
_Charles Battell Loomis._

TO VIOLET

(_With a Bunch of Namesakes_)

THERE is a maid—I am afraid
To give her name to you—
Who makes great pets of violets—
I wish I were one, too.

Once in her youth, this all is truth,
She took some up to smell;—
In some strange way the records say,
Into her eyes they fell——

And there they stayed—they never fade—
She looks at me—sometimes,—
And then—Oh, then I seize my pen
And fall to writing rhymes.

But, sad mischance! My consonants
Desert—four vowels, too;
A, E, O, I, take wings, that’s why
My rhymes are filled with U.
_Robert Cameron Rogers._

HER BONNET

WHEN meeting-bells began to toll,
And pious folk began to pass,
She deftly tied her bonnet on,
The little, sober meeting lass,
All in her neat, white-curtained room, before her tiny
looking-glass.

So nicely, round her lady-cheeks,
She smoothed her hands of glossy hair,
And innocently wondered if
Her bonnet did not make her fair—
Then sternly chid her foolish heart for harbouring such fancies
there.

So square she tied the satin strings,
And set the bows beneath her chin;
Then smiled to see how sweet she looked;
Then thought her vanity a sin,
And she must put such thoughts away before the sermon should begin.

But, sitting ’neath the preachèd Word,
Demurely in her father’s pew,
She thought about her bonnet still,—
Yes, all the parson’s sermon through,—
About its pretty bows and buds which better than the text she knew.

Yet sitting there with peaceful face,
The reflex of her simple soul,
She looked to be a very saint—
And maybe was one, on the whole—
Only that her pretty bonnet kept away the aureole.
_Mary E. Wilkins._

A SONG

I will not say my true love’s eyes
Outshine the noblest star;
But in their depth of lustre lies
My peace, my truce, my war.

I will not say upon her neck
Is white to shame the snow;
For if her bosom hath a speck
I would not have it go.

My love is as a woman sweet,
And as a woman white;
Who’s more than this is more than meet
For me and my delight.
_Norman R. Gale._

LES PAPILLOTTES

EULALIA sat before the glass
While Betty smoothed her hair.
The mirror told her how she was
Attractive, young and fair;
Curtius was telling her the same
In rosy note, where he confessed his flame.

She read with a satiric eye
Of passion, hope and pain;
Then, careless tossed the poor note by;
Then, took it up again,
And systematically tore,
And folded each strip carefully in four,

And handed in fine scorn each bit
Of rapture to the maid,
Who wot how to dispose of it.
The beauty, disarrayed,
Now crept in bed, blew out the light
Her locks in pink curl-papers for the night.

She slept; and with each gentle breath
The paper in her hair
Soft rustled, and, the story saith,
Repeated to the air
Whate’er stood on it fervent thing—
As if the lover’s self were whispering.

And through her dream she heard it say,
The twist o’er her left ear,—
“I vow that I must love alway
The dearest of the dear.”
And o’er her forehead spoke a twist,
“That stolen glove I’ve kissed and over-kissed.”

Said one, “Thou are the loveliest;
Thy beauty I adore.”
Another, smaller than the rest,
Sighed, “Love, love,” o’er and o’er.
And one said, “Pity my sad plight!”
So Curtius’ passion pleaded all the night.

Eulalia waking in the morn,
Large-eyed, sat up in bed,
While vows the tend’rest that be sworn
Still whispered in her head;—
A dreamy bliss her soul possessed,—
She rang for Betty; and before she dressed,

Upon a subtly perfumed sheet,
As Curtius’ own, blush-pink,
She penned with crow-quill small and neat,
And perfumed crow-black ink,
In flowing hand right tidily,
The proper, simple message, “Come at three.”
_Gertrude Hall._

UPON GRACIOSA, WALKING AND TALKING

When as abroad, to greet the morn,
I mark my Graciosa walk,
In homage bends the whisp’ring corn,
Yet to confess
Its awkwardness
Must hang its head upon the stalk.

And when she talks, her lips do heal
The wounds her lightest glances give:—
In pity then be harsh, and deal
Such wounds that I
May hourly die,
And, by a word restored, live.
_A. Quiller-Couch._

HER VALENTINE

WHAT, send her a valentine? Never!
I see you don’t know who “she” is.
I should ruin my chances forever;
My hopes would collapse with a fizz.

I can’t see why she scents such disaster
When I take heart to venture a word;
I’ve no dream of becoming her master,
I’ve no notion of being her lord.

All I want is to just be her lover!
She’s the most up-to-date of her sex,
And there’s such a multitude of her,
No wonder they call her complex.

She’s a bachelor, even when married,
She’s a vagabond, even when housed;
And if ever her citadel’s carried
Her suspicions must not be aroused.

She’s erratic, impulsive and human,
And she blunders,—as goddesses can;
But if she’s what they call the New Woman,
Then I’d like to be the New Man.

I’m glad she makes books and paints pictures,
And typewrites and hoes her own row,
And it’s quite beyond reach of conjectures
How much further she’s going to go.

When she scorns, in the L-road, my proffer
Of a seat and hangs on to a strap;
I admire her so much, I could offer
To let her ride up on my lap.

Let her undo the stays of the ages,
That have cramped and confined her so long!
Let her burst through the frail candy cages
That fooled her to think they were strong!

She may enter life’s wide vagabondage,
She may do without flutter or frill,
She may take off the chains of her bondage,—
And anything else that she will.

She may take me off, for example,
And she probably does when I’m gone.
I’m aware the occasion is ample;
That’s why I so often take on.

I’m so glad she can win her own dollars
And know all the freedom it brings.
I love her in shirt-waists and collars,
I love her in dress-reform things.

I love her in bicycle skirtlings—
Especially when there’s a breeze—
I love her in crinklings and quirklings
And anything else that you please.

I dote on her even in bloomers—
If Parisian enough in their style—
In fact, she may choose her costumers,
Wherever her fancy beguile.

She may box, she may shoot, she may wrestle,
She may argue, hold office or vote,
She may engineer turret or trestle,
And build a few ships that will float.

She may lecture (all lectures but curtain)
Make money, and naturally spend,
If I let her have her way, I’m certain
She’ll let me have mine in the end!
_Richard Hovey._

STORY OF THE GATE

ACROSS the pathway, myrtle-fringed,
Under the maple, it was hinged—
The little wooden gate;
’Twas there within the quiet gloam,
When I had strolled with Nelly home,
I used to pause and wait.

Before I said to her good-night,
Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite
Within the garden’s pale;
And there, the gate between us two,
We’d linger as all lovers do,
And lean upon the rail.

And face to face, eyes close to eyes,
Hands meeting hands in feigned surprise,
After a stealthy quest,—
So close I’d bend, ere she’d retreat,
That I’d grow drunken from the sweet
Tuberose upon her breast.

We’d talk—in fitful style, I ween—
With many a meaning glance between
The tender words and low;
We’d whisper some dear, sweet conceit,
Some idle gossip we’d repeat,
And then I’d move to go.

“Good-night,” I’d say; “Good-night—good-by!”
“Good-night”—from her with half a sigh—
“Good-night!” “Good-night!” And then
And then I do not go, but stand,
Again lean on the railing, and—
Begin it all again.

Ah! that was many a day ago—
That pleasant summer-time—although
The gate is standing yet;
A little cranky, it may be,
A little weather-worn—like me—
Who never can forget.

The happy “End”? My cynic friend,
Pray save your sneers—there was no “end.”
Watch yonder chubby thing!
That is our youngest, hers and mine;
See how he climbs, his legs to twine
About the gate and swing.
_Harrison Robertson._

TWO TRIOLETS

I

(_What He Said_)

THIS kiss upon your fan I press,
Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don’t refuse it,
And may it from its soft recess,
This kiss upon your fan I press,
Be blown to you a shy caress
By this white down whene’er you use it;
This kiss upon your fan I press,
Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don’t refuse it.

II

(_What She Thought_)

To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!
The stupid man
To kiss a fan,
When he knows that—he—can,
Or ought to know it.
To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!
_Harrison Robertson._

A BALLADE OF OLD SWEETHEARTS

WHO is it that weeps for the last year’s flowers
When the wood is aflame with the fires of spring,
And we hear her voice in the lilac bowers
As she croons the runes of the blossoming?
For the same old blooms do the new years bring,
But not to our lives do the years come so,
New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling.—
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

Ah me! for a breath of those morning hours
When Alice and I went a-wandering
Through the shining fields, and it still was ours
To kiss and to feel we were shuddering—
Ah me! when a kiss was a holy thing—
How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh!
With Phyllis once more to be whispering—
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

But it cannot be that old Time devours
Such loves as was Annie’s and mine we sing,
And surely beneficent heavenly powers
Save Muriel’s beauty from perishing;
And if in some golden evening
To a quaint old garden I chance to go,
Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?—
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

L’ENVOI

In these lives of ours do the new years bring
Old loves as old flowers again to blow?
Or do new lips kiss and new bosoms cling?—
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.
_Richard Le Gallienne._

AMOUR DE VOYAGE

AND I was a man who could write you rhyme
(Just so much for you, nothing more),
And you were the woman I loved for a time—
Loved for a little, and nothing more,
We shall go our ways when the voyage is o’er,
You with your beauty and I with my rhymes,
With a dim remembrance rising at times
(Only a memory, nothing more)
Of a lovely face and some worthless rhymes.

Meantime till our comedy reaches its end
(It’s comic ending, and nothing more)
I shall live as your lover who loved as a friend—
Shall swear true love till Life be o’er.
And you, you must make believe and attend,
As the steamer throbs from shore to shore.

And so, we shall pass the time for a little
(Pass it in pleasure, and nothing more),
For vows, alas! are sadly brittle,
And each may forget the oaths that we swore.
And have we not loved for an age, and age?
And was I not yours from shore to shore?
From landing-stage to landing-stage
Did I not worship and kneel and adore?
And what is a month in love but an age?
And who in their senses would wish for more?
_Rudyard Kipling._

THE LOVERS’ LITANY

EYES of gray—a sodden quay,
Driving rain and falling tears,
As the steamer wears to sea
In a parting storm of cheers.
Sing, for Faith and Hope are high—
None so true as you and I—
Sing the Lovers’ Litany:—
“_Love like ours can never die!_”

Eyes of black—a throbbing keel,
Milky foam to left and right;
Whispered converse near the wheel
In the brilliant tropic night.
Cross that rules the Southern Sky!
Stars that sweep and wheel and fly
Hear the Lovers’ Litany:—
“_Love like ours can never die!_”

Eyes of brown—a dusty plain
Split and parched with heat of June,
Flying hoof and tightened rein,
Hearts that beat the old old tune.
Side by side the horses fly,
Frame we now the old reply
Of the Lovers’ Litany:—
“_Love like ours can never die!_”

Eyes of blue—the Simla Hills
Silvered with the moonlight hoar;
Pleading of the waltz that thrills,
Dies and echoes round Benmore.
“_Mabel_,” “_Officers_,” “_Good-by_,”
Glamour, wine, and witchery—
On my soul’s sincerity,
“_Love like ours can never die!_”

Maidens, of your charity,
Pity my most luckless state.
Four times Cupid’s debtor I—
Bankrupt in quadruplicate.
Yet, despite this evil case,
And a maiden showed me grace,
Four-and-forty times would I
Sing the Lovers’ Litany:—
“_Love like ours can never die!_”
_Rudyard Kipling._

A LENTEN CALL

’TWAS the second of March, in the present year,
And the morning after a revel,
When the world and the flesh made a party call,
Accompanied by the Devil.

Their coats were creaseless, their “patents” shone,
And the Devil smiled most sweetly,
To think that a carefully built-up shoe,
Hid his cloven hoof completely.

They rang the bell at Society’s door,
Sent in their names and stood waiting,
The usual warm reception there
Serenely anticipating.

But the white-capped maid returned and said
In a voice demurely level,
That her mistress was not at home that day
To the World, the Flesh or the Devil.

The World and the Flesh grew pale—as well
They might do, with propriety—
For they’d be in a parlous state, without
The countenance of Society.

And even the Devil looked half-perplexed
Till he cried—“Ah! I see the reason!
It is one of Society’s yearly fads,
And this is the Lenten season.”

Then they all three laughed, both loud and long,
For it certainly did relieve them
To think that after some forty days
Society would receive them;

And that the unwonted quiet would give
New zest to each after-revel,
When Society opened her doors again
To the World, the Flesh and the Devil.
_Hilda Johnson Wise._

HELEN’S FACE A BOOK

HELEN’S face is like a book—
Charming, all its pages.
Helen’s face is like a book;
What’s the story I forsook,
When on Helen’s face I look,
When her smile engages?

There I read an old romance;
Here, I see one living!
There, I read an old romance,
But in Helen’s lightest glance
Far a livelier tale enchants,
Wild excitement giving!

What is printer’s ink to me?
Commas, dots and dashes!
What is printer’s ink to me,
If with Helen I may be,
Exclamation points to see
Underneath her lashes?
_Gelett Burgess._

THE BUTTERFLY’S MADRIGAL

LOVE-for-a-day, come let’s be gay!
Love, for a day, thy lips are smiling!
Love-for-a-week, our bliss we’ll seek,
Love, for a week, dull care beguiling!
Love-for-a-year, be true my dear!
Love, for a year—and then we’ll sever;
Love for a day or year we may,
But Love for aye—ah, never!
_Gelett Burgess._

BALLADE OF THE DEVIL-MAY-CARE

FREE as the wandering pike am I,
Many the strings to my amorous bow,
More than a little inclined to fly
Butterfly lovering, to and fro;
Happy wherever the flowers blow,
With the dew on the leaf, and the sunshine above,
Terribly wrong and unprincipled? No,
Life is too short to be “dead in love!”

Not for me is the lover’s sigh;
Fools are they to be worrying so!
Sipping my fill of the honey I fly
Butterfly lovering, to and fro.
I skim the cream, and let all else go;
Gather my roses, and give a shove
Over my shoulder at dutiful woe,—
Life is too short to be “dead in love!”

So, while the fanciful hours go by,
I gayly reap what the simpletons sow.
Fresh with their bloom are the fruits I try,
Butterfly lovering, to and fro.
Then here’s to the lady who wears her beau
On and off, like a dainty glove!
And here’s to the zephyrs that all-ways blow—
Life is too short to be “dead in love!”

ENVOY

Prince, who cares for the coming snow,
Butterfly lovering to and fro?
Why should a man be a turtle-dove?
Life is too short to be “dead in love!”
_Gelett Burgess._

BALLADE OF DREAMS TRANSPOSED

SOME may like to be shut in a cage,
Cooped in a corner, a-tippling tea,
Some may in troublesome toil engage;
But the luck of a rover’s the thing for me!
Over the mountain and over the sea,
Now in the country and now in the town,
And when I’m wrinkled and withered, maybe,
Then I’ll marry and settle down.

Some may pore over printed page
And never know bird, nor beast, nor tree,
Watching the world from book or stage;
But the luck of a rover’s the thing for me!
So ho! for the forest, and ho! for the lea,
And ho! for the river and prairie brown,
And ho! for a gay long jubilee,—
Then I’ll marry and settle down.

Why should I wait till a gray old age
Brings me chance to be rich and free?
I have no money—it makes me rage;
But the luck of a rover’s the thing for me!
Though oft, with my lover upon my knee
(She has frolicsome eyes and a fetching gown!)
I fear if my heart’s to be held in fee,—
Then I’ll marry and settle down.

ENVOY

Prince, my sweetheart will not agree,—
But the luck of a rover’s the thing for me!
She says I must stay, and I fear her frown,—
Then I’ll marry and settle down.
_Gelett Burgess._

VILLANELLE OF HIS LADY’S TREASURE