CHARLES,—for it seems you wish to know,— | |
| You wonder what could scare me so, | |
| And why, in this long-locked bureau, | |
| With trembling fingers,— | |
| With tragic air, I now replace | 5 |
| This ancient web of yellow lace, | |
| Among whose faded folds the trace | |
| Of perfume lingers. | |
| |
| Friend of my youth, severe as true, | |
| I guess the train your thoughts pursue; | 10 |
| But this my state is nowise due | |
| To indigestion; | |
| I had forgotten it was there, | |
| A scarf that Some-one used to wear. | |
| Hinc illæ lacrimæ,—so spare | 15 |
| Your cynic question. | |
| |
| Some-one who is not girlish now, | |
| And wed long since. We meet and bow; | |
| I don’t suppose our broken vow | |
| Affects us keenly; | 20 |
| Yet, trifling though my act appears, | |
| Your Sternes would make it ground for tears;— | |
| One can’t disturb the dust of years, | |
| And smile serenely. | |
| |
| “My golden locks” are gray and chill, | 25 |
| For hers,—let them be sacred still; | |
| But yet, I own, a boyish thrill | |
| Went dancing through me, | |
| Charles, when I held yon yellow lace; | |
| For, from its dusty hiding-place, | 30 |
| Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face | |
| That beckoned to me. | |
| |
| We shut our heart up, now-a-days, | |
| Like some old music-box that plays | |
| Unfashionable airs that raise | 35 |
| Derisive pity; | |
| Alas,—a nothing starts the spring; | |
| And lo, the sentimental thing | |
| At once commences quavering | |
| Its lover’s ditty. | 40 |
| |
| Laugh if you like. The boy in me,— | |
| The boy that was,—revived to see | |
| The fresh young smile that shone when she, | |
| Of old, was tender. | |
| Once more we trod the Golden Way,— | 45 |
| The mother you saw yesterday, | |
| And I, whom none can well portray, | |
| As young, or slender. | |
| |
| She twirled the flimsy scarf about | |
| Her pretty head, and stepping out, | 50 |
| Slipped arm in mine, with half a pout | |
| Of childish pleasure. | |
| Where we were bound no mortal knows, | |
| For then you plunged in Ireland’s woes, | |
| And brought me blankly back to prose | 55 |
| And Gladstone’s measure. | |
| |
| Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate. | |
| My brown old books around me wait, | |
| My pipe still holds, unconfiscate, | |
| Its wonted station. | 60 |
| Pass me the wine. To Those that keep | |
| The bachelor’s secluded sleep | |
| Peaceful, inviolate, and deep, | |
| I pour libation! | |
| |
