Part 14

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

I TOOK her dainty eyes, as well As silken tendrils of her hair: And so I made a Villanelle!

I took her voice, a silver bell, As clear as song, as soft as prayer; I took her dainty eyes as well.

It may be, said I, who can tell, These things shall be my less despair? And so I made a Villanelle!

I took her whiteness virginal And from her cheek two roses rare: I took her dainty eyes as well.

I said: “It may be possible Her image from my heart to tear!” And so I made a Villanelle.

I stole her laugh, most musical: I wrought it in with artful care; I took her dainty eyes as well; And so I made a Villanelle. _Ernest Dowson._

L’ENVOI

GO, pretty Rose, and to her tell All I would say, could I but see The slender form I know so well, The roguish eyes that laughed at me.

And when your fragrance fills the room, Tell her of all I hope and fear; With every breath of sweet perfume, Whisper my greetings in her ear.

But, Roses, stay—there is one thing You must not mention (don’t forget, For it might be embarrassing), And that is, you’re not paid for yet! _E. B. Reed._

A MERRY BLUE-EYED LADDIE

A MERRY blue-eyed laddie goes laughing through the town, Singing, “Hey, but the world is a gay, gay, place!” And every little lassie smooths her tumbled locks a-down, And brings out all her dimples and hides away her frown, And lays aside her broom and mop, the bonnie boy to chase, Singing, “Hey, but the world is a gay, gay place!”

But away the blue-eyed laddie goes to seek another town, Singing, “Hey, but the world is a gay, gay place!” Then every dimple vanishes, and back comes every frown, And every little lassie folds away her Sunday gown, With tear-drops trickling sadly down her woful little face, Sighing, “Hey, but the world is a sad, sad place!” _Juliet Wilbour Tompkins._

DANCE TIME

IT’S I live in a very wise town As all wise people know: They read, they write, they read all day As orchard-trees do grow.

Said I,—I was a young thing then, And a foolish young thing, too,— “I will not spend my little life thus; There’s much I’d rather do.

“For I would rather look at you This way, with happy looks, Than lose the stars from my two eyes With poring over books.

“I’d rather far be red and white For stupid folks to see Than write nine books for little dull worms To eat them, leisurely.

“And I would rather have it said When all my days are through, ‘O she was good to see and hear And say Good-morning to!’

“When learning makes you white and red And fresh as west-winds blow, I may spend sun and candle-light To learn what they all know.

“But O, the wise in this wise town, They have no longer prime. And there are fewer wise men, now, Than once upon a time!”

_Josephine Preston Peabody Marks._

HOW LIKE A WOMAN

I WANTED you to come to-day— Or so I told you in my letter— And yet, if you had stayed away, I should have liked you so much better. I should have sipped my tea unseen, And thrilled at every door-bell’s pealing, And thought how nice I could have been Had you evinced a little feeling.