Part 18

He longs to steal a kiss of mine-- He may, if he'll return it: If I can read the tender sign, He longs to steal a kiss of mine; "In love and war"--you know the line Why cannot he discern it? He longs to steal a kiss of mine-- He may if he'll return it.

BOTH (_five minutes later_).

A little kiss when no one sees, Where is the impropriety? How sweet amid the birds and bees A little kiss when no one sees! Nor is it wrong, the world agrees, If taken with sobriety. A little kiss when no one sees, Where is the impropriety?

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

Warm from the wall she chose a peach, She took the wasps for councillors; She said, "Such little things can teach;" Warm from the wall she chose a peach; She waved the fruit within my reach, Then passed it to a friend of hers:-- Warm from the wall she chose a peach, She took the wasps for councillors.

EMILY PFEIFFER.

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.

SIX TRIOLETS.

DEAR READER.

If you never write verses yourself, Dear reader, I leave it with you, You will grant a half-inch of your shelf, If you never write verses yourself. It was praised by some lenient elf, It was damned by a heavy review; If you never write verses yourself, Dear reader, I leave it with you.

TRANSPONTINE.

Ices--Programmes--Lemonade! 'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye! Why, Pussy, you're crying: afraid? Ices--Programmes--Lemonade! It's the first time you've seen a piece played? Its pretty, but, Pussy, don't cry. Ices--Programmes--Lemonade! 'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye!

OUT.

I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer? Are those twenty years gone to-day? Why, she was my wife, sir, dear-so dear. I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer? ... Ah hound! He was shaking with fear, And I rushed--with a knife, they say.... I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer? Are those twenty years gone to-day?

[_v._ Police Reports of the release of George Hall from Birmingham prison.]

A HUPROAR.

Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank! 'Ere's a huproar, my bloomin', hoff side! A flower, miss? Ah, thankee, miss, thank- Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank! 'Igher up! 'Ullo, Bill, wot a prank! If that 'ere old carcase aint shied! Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank! 'Ere's a huproar, my bloomin', hoff side!

SPRING VOICES.

Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy! Ah, rich man! I would not be you. All spring-time it haunts me, that cry:- Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy! Whose loss if she tell me a lie? "They're starving; my God, sir, it's true." Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy! Ah, rich man! I would not be you!

BETWEEN THE LINES.

Cigar lights! yer honour? Cigar lights? May God forget you in your need. Ay, damn you! if folks get their rights (Cigar lights! yer honour?-cigar lights) Their babies shan't starve in the nights For wanting the price of your weed- Cigar lights! yer honour? Cigar lights! May God forget you in your need!

ERNEST RADFORD.

FROM "FIAMETTA".

Since I am her's and she is mine We live in Love and fear no change! For Love is God, so we divine. Since I am her's and she is mine, In some fair love-land far and fine, Through golden years our feet shall range. Since I am her's and she is mine, We live in Love and fear no change.

Why dost thou look so pale, my Love? Why dost thou sigh and say Farewell? "These myrtles seem a cypress grove." Why dost thou look so pale, my Love? "I hear the raven, not the dove, And for the marriage-peal, a knell." Why dost thou look so pale, my Love? Why dost thou sigh and say Farewell?

"Since I can never come again, When I am dead and gone from here, Grieve not for me; all grief's in vain, Since I can never come again; But let no thought of me remain. With my last kiss give thy last tear, Since I can never come again, When I am dead and gone from here."

All the night and all the day I think upon her lying dead, With lips that neither kiss nor pray All the night nor all the day. In that dark grave whose only ray Of sun or moon's her golden head, All the night and all the day I think upon her lying dead.

Why should I live alone, Since Love was all in vain? My heart to thine is flown- Why should I live alone? Dost thou too make thy moan, In Paradise complain: Why should I live alone, Since Love was all in vain?

What can heal a broken heart? Death alone, I fear me, Thou that dost true lovers part, What can heal a broken heart? Death alone, that made the smart, Death, that will not hear me. What can heal a broken heart? Death alone, I fear me.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

A SNOWFLAKE IN MAY.

I saw a snowflake in the air When smiling May had decked the year, And then 'twas gone, I knew not where,-- I saw a snowflake in the air, And thought perchance an angel's prayer Had fallen from some starry sphere; I saw a snowflake in the air When smiling May had decked the year.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

APOLOGY FOR GAZING AT A YOUNG LADY IN CHURCH.

The sermon was long And the preacher was prosy. Dou you think it was wrong? The sermon was long, The temptation was strong, Her cheeks were so rosy. The sermon was long And the preacher was prosy.

_The Century Magazine._

A TINY TRIP.

THE BILL OF LADING.

She was cargo and crew, She was boatswain and skipper, She was passenger too Of the _Nutshell_ canoe; And the eyes were so blue Of this sweet tiny tripper! She was cargo and crew, She was boatswain and skipper!

THE PILOT.

How I bawled "Ship, ahoy!" Hard by Medmenham Ferry! And she answered with joy, She moved like a convoy, And would love to employ A bold pilot so merry. How I bawled "Ship, ahoy!" Hard by Medmenham Ferry!

THE VOYAGE.

'Neath the trees gold and red In that bright autumn weather, When our white sails were spread O'er the waters we sped- What was it she said? When we drifted together! 'Neath the trees gold and red In that bright autumn weather!

THE HAVEN.

Ah! the moments flew fast, But our trip too soon ended! When we reached land at last, And our craft was made fast, It was six or half-past- And Mama looked offended! Ah! the moments flew fast, But our trip too soon ended.

J. ASHBY STERRY.

VESTIGIA.

I.

I saw her shadow on the grass That day we walked together. Across the field where the pond was I saw her shadow on the grass. And now I sigh and say, Alas! That e'er in summer weather I saw her shadow on the grass That day we walked together!

II.

Hope bowed his head in sleep: Ah me and wellaway! Although I cannot weep, Hope bowed his head in sleep. The heavy hours creep: When is the break of day? Hope bowed his head in sleep, Ah me and wellaway!

III.

The sea on the beach Flung the foam of its ire. We watched without speech The sea on the beach, And we clung each to each As the tempest shrilled higher And the sea on the beach Flung the foam of its ire.

IV.

When Love is once dead Who shall awake him? Bitter our bread When Love is once dead His comforts are fled, His favours forsake him. When Love is once dead Who shall awake him?

V.

Love is a swallow Flitting with spring: Though we would follow, Love is a swallow, All his vows hollow: Than let us sing, Love is a swallow Flitting with spring.

ARTHUR SYMONS.

* * * * *

A poor cicala, piping shrill, I may not ape the Nightingale, I sit upon the sun-browned hill, A poor cicala, piping shrill When summer noon is warm and still, Content to chirp my homely tale; A poor cicala piping shrill, I may not ape the Nightingale.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

THREE TRIOLETS.

I.

Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint, He will not leave our hearth again: So safely lulled his murmuring plaint, Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint; All clasped and bound in fond constraint, And circled with a shining chain, Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint, He will not leave our hearth again.

II.

Your rose-red bonds are all in vain, If bound Love weep for weariness: His faded eyes are drowned in rain. Your rose-red bonds are all in vain, He murmurs low a dull refrain, And turns his lips from our caress- Your rose-red bonds are all in vain If bound Love weep for weariness!

III.

That grey, last day we said goodbye Makes winter weather in my heart; Dull cloud wreaths veiled our summer sky That grey, last day we said goodbye And loosed faint love; I wonder why (For _then_, in truth, 'twas well to part) That grey, last day we said goodbye Makes wintry weather in my heart.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

TRIOLET.

The roses are dead, And swallows are flying: White, golden, and red, The roses are dead; Yet tenderly tread Where their petals are lying. The roses are dead, And swallows are flying.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

REJECTED.

You've spoken of love, And I've answered with laughter; You've kissed--my kid glove. You've spoken of love. Why! powers above? Is there more to come after. You've spoken of love And I've answered with laughter.

Her lips were so near That--what else could I do? You'll be angry, I fear, Her lips were so near. Well, I can't make it clear Or explain it to you. Her lips were so near That--what else could I do?

_From "The Century."_

A PAIR OF GLOVES.

My love of loves--my May, In rippling shadows lying, Was sleeping mid the hay-- My love of loves--my May! The ardent sun was trying To kiss her dreams away! My love of loves--my May, In rippling shadows lying.

I knelt and kissed her lips, Sweeter than any flower The bee for honey sips! I knelt and kissed her lips,-- And as her dark eyes' power Awoke from sleep's eclipse, I knelt and kissed her lips, Sweeter than any flower!

The pair of gloves I won, My darling pays in kisses! Long may the sweet debt run-- The pair of gloves I won! Till death our loves dismisses This feud will ne'er be done-- The pair of gloves I won, My darling pays in kisses!

C. H. WARING.

IN THE ORCHARD.

A Trio of Triolets.

O the apples rosy-red! O the gnarled trunks grey and brown, Heavy-branchèd overhead! O the apples rosy-red! O the merry laughter sped, As the fruit is showered down! O the apples rosy-red! O the gnarled trunks grey and brown!

O the blushes rosy-red! O the loving autumn breeze! O the words so softly said! O the blushes rosy-red, While old doubts and fears lie dead, Buried 'neath the apple-trees! O the blushes rosy-red! O the loving autumn breeze!

O the years so swiftly fled! O twin hearts that beat as one, With a love time-strengthenèd! O the years so swiftly fled! O the apples rosy-red, That still ripen in the sun! O the years so swiftly fled! O twin hearts that beat as one!

GEORGE WEATHERLY.

#The Villanelle, Virelai, and Virelai Nouveau.#

_VILLANELLE._

_J'ay perdu ma tourterelle;_ _Est-ce-point elle que i'oy?_[10] _Je veux aller après elle._

_Tu regrettes ta femelle;_ _Hélas! aussy fay-je moy:_ _J'ay perdu ma tourterelle._

_Si ton amour est fidèle,_ _Aussy est ferme ma foy;_ _Je veux aller après elle._

_Ta plainte se renouvelle?_ _Toujours plaindre je me doy:_ _J'ay perdu ma tourterelle._

_En ne voyant plus la belle_ _Plus rien de beau je ne voy:_ _Je veux aller après elle._

_Mort, que tant de fois j'appelle_ _Prens ce qui se donne à toy:_ _J'ai perdu ma tourterelle,_ _Je veux aller après elle._

--JEAN PASSERAT.

[10] _J'entends._

ROSES.

There are roses white, there are roses red, Shyly rosy, tenderly white;- Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?

Which shall I cull from the garden-bed To greet my love on this very night? There are roses white, there are roses red.

The red should say what I would have said; Ah! how they blush in the evening light! Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?

The white are pale as the snow new-spread, Pure as young eyes and half as bright; There are roses white, there are roses red.

Roses white, from the heaven dew-fed, Roses red for a passion's plight; Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?

Summer twilight is almost fled, Say, dear love! have I chosen right? There are roses white, there are roses red, All twined together to wreathe my head.

L. S. BEVINGTON.

A VACATION VILLANELLE.

O Halcyon hours of happy holiday, When frets of function and of fashion flee, (Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway). Ye whisper 'welcome' to our wandering way, And give a gracious greeting to our glee, O halcyon hours of happy holiday!

Or pacing prairies in pursuit of prey, Or sailing silent on a southern sea, (Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway), Or gliding giddy down some glacier gray, Or joining in a German jubilee, O halcyon hours of happy holiday!

We breathe such buoyant bliss that we betray Our sportive spirits strangely-_sans souci_ Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway, And dear the dreaming of these days _distraits_ We find we ye, so _fainéants_ and free, O halcyon hours of happy holiday!

COTSFORD DICK.

"TU NE QUAESIERIS."

Seek not, O maid, to know (Alas! unblest the trying!) When thou and I must go.

No lore of stars can show. What shall be, vainly prying, Seek not, O maid, to know.

Will Jove long years bestow?- Or is't with this one dying, That thou and I must go;

Now,-when the great winds blow And waves the reef are plying?... Seek not, O maid, to know.

Rather let clear wine flow, On no vain hope relying; When thou and I must go

Lies dark; then be it so. Now,--_now_, churl Time is flying; Seek not, O maid, to know When thou and I must go.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE.

When I saw you last, Rose, You were only so high;- How fast the time goes!

Like a bud ere it blows, You just peeped at the sky, When I saw you last, Rose!

Now your petals unclose, Now your May-time is nigh;- How fast the time goes!

And a life,-how it grows! You were scarcely so shy, When I saw you last, Rose!

In your bosom it shows There's a guest on the sly; How fast the time goes!

Is it Cupid? Who knows! Yet you used not to sigh, When I saw you last, Rose;- How fast the time goes!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS.

O singer of the field and fold, THEOCRITUS! Pan's pipe was thine,-- Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

For thee the scent of new-turned mould, The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine, O singer of the field and fold!

Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,-- The beechen bowl made glad with wine ... Thine was the happier Age of Gold!

Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told,-- Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine, O singer of the field and fold!

And round thee, ever laughing, rolled The blithe and blue Sicilian brine ... Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Alas for us! our songs are cold; Our northern suns too sadly shine:-- O singer of the field and fold, Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

ON A NANKIN PLATE.

"Ah me, but it might have been! Was there ever so dismal a fate?"-- Quoth the little blue mandarin.

"Such a maid as was never seen! She passed, though I cried to her 'Wait,'-- Ah me, but it might have been!

"I cried, 'O my Flower, my Queen, Be mine!' 'Twas precipitate,"-- Quoth the little blue mandarin,--

"But then ... she was just sixteen,-- Long-eyed,--as a lily straight,-- Ah me, but it might have been!

"As it was, from her palankeen, She laughed--'you're a week too late!'" (Quoth the little blue mandarin.)

"That is why, in a mist of spleen, I mourn on this Nankin Plate. Ah me, but it might have been!" Quoth the little blue mandarin.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

VILLANELLE.

Wouldst thou not be content to die When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging And golden autumn passes by?

Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky, While sunset bells are faintly ringing, Wouldst thou not be content to die?

For wintry webs of mist on high Out of the muffled earth are springing, And golden Autumn passes by.

O now when pleasures fade and fly, And Hope her southward flight is winging, Wouldst thou not be content to die?

Lest Winter come, with wailing cry His cruel icy bondage bringing, When golden Autumn hath passed by;

And thou with many a tear and sigh, While life her wasted hands is wringing, Shall pray in vain for leave to die When golden Autumn hath passed by.

EDMUND GOSSE.

VILLANELLE.

Little mistress mine, good-bye! I have been your sparrow true; Dig my grave, for I must die.

Waste no tear and heave no sigh, Life should still be blithe for you, Little mistress mine, good-bye!

In your garden let me lie; Underneath the pointed yew Dig my grave, for I must die.

We have loved the quiet sky With its tender arch of blue; Little mistress mine, good-bye!

That I still may feel you nigh, In your virgin bosom, too, Dig my grave, for I must die.

Let our garden-friends that fly Be the mourners, fit and few. Little mistress mine, good-bye! Dig my grave, for I must die.

EDMUND GOSSE.

VILLANELLE.

Where's the use of sighing? Sorrow as you may, Time is always flying-

Flying!-and defying Men to say him nay ... Where's the use of sighing?

Look! To-day is dying After yesterday. Time is always flying.

Flying--and when crying Cannot make him stay, Where's the use of sighing?

Men with by-and-bying, Fritter life away. Time is always flying,

Flying!--O, from prying Cease, and go to play. Where's the use of sighing, "Time is always flying?"

W. E. HENLEY.

VILLANELLE.

A dainty thing's the Villanelle. Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme, It serves its purpose passing well.

A double-clappered silver bell That must be made to clink in chime, A dainty thing's the Villanelle;

And if you wish to flute a spell, Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime, It serves its purpose passing well.

You must not ask of it the swell Of organs grandiose and sublime-- A dainty thing's the Villanelle;

And, filled with sweetness, as a shell Is filled with sound, and launched in time, It serves its purpose passing well.

Still fair to see and good to smell As in the quaintness of its prime, A dainty thing's the Villanelle, It serves its purpose passing well.

W. E. HENLEY.

VILLANELLE.

In the clatter of the train Is a promise brisk and bright. I shall see my love again!

I am tired and fagged and fain; But I feel a still delight In the clatter of the train,

Hurry-hurrying on amain Through the moonshine thin and white-- I shall see my love again!

Many noisy miles remain; But a sympathetic sprite In the clatter of the train

Hammers cheerful:-that the strain Once concluded and the fight, I shall see my love again.

Yes, the overword is plain,-- If it's trivial, if it's trite-- In the clatter of the train: "I shall see my love again."

W. E. HENLEY.

VILLANELLE.

(To M. Joseph Boulmier, Author of "Les Villanelles.")

Villanelle, why art thou mute? Hath the singer ceased to sing? Hath the Master lost his lute?

Many a pipe and scrannel flute On the breeze their discords fling; Villanelle, why art _thou_ mute?

Sound of tumult or dispute, Noise of war the echoes bring; Hath the Master lost his lute?

Once he sang of bud and shoot In the season of the Spring; Villanelle, why art thou mute?

Fading leaf and falling fruit Say, "The year is on the wing, Hath the Master lost his lute?"

Ere the axe lies at the root, Ere the winter comes as king, Villanelle, why art thou mute? Hath the Master lost his lute!

ANDREW LANG.

VILLANELLE.

(To the Nightingale in September.)

Child of the muses and the moon, O nightingale, return and sing, Thy song is over all too soon.

Let not night's quire yield place to noon, To this red breast thy tawny wing, Child of the muses and the moon.

Sing us once more the same sad tune Pandion heard when he was king, Thy song is over all too soon.

Night after night thro' leafy June The stars were hush'd and listening, Child of the muses and the moon.

Now new moons grow to plenilune And wane, but no new music bring; Thy song is over all too soon.

Ah, thou art weary! well, sleep on, Sleep till the sun brings back the spring. Thy song is over all too soon, Child of the muses and the moon.

"_Love in Idleness._"

VILLANELLE.

Beautiful, distracting Hetty, This was how it came to be As we strolled upon the jetty.

I had danced three times with Netty, She had flirted with Dobree, Beautiful, distracting Hetty.

I was humming Donizetti, Hurt was I, and angry she, As we strolled upon the jetty.

As she levelled her Negretti With provoking nicety, Beautiful, distracting Hetty,

Suddenly she flashed a pretty, Half-defiant glance at me, As we strolled upon the jetty.

And our quarrel seemed so petty By the grandeur of the sea! Beautiful, distracting Hetty, As we strolled upon the jetty.

COSMO MONKHOUSE.

VILLANELLE.

Life, thou art vaguely strangely sweet, Thy gladness fills our throbbing veins, But Death comes on with footsteps fleet.

With rapture men each morning greet, And spite of losses, cares and pains. Life, thou art vaguely strangely sweet.

We, while with health our pulses beat, Heed not the falling hour glass grains, But Death comes in with footsteps fleet.