| Fuess and Stearns, comps. The Little Book of Society Verse. 1922. | | | | Thalia | | By Thomas Bailey Aldrich |
| | | I SAY it under the rose— | |
| Oh, thanks!—yes, under the laurel, | |
| We part lovers, not foes: | |
| We are not going to quarrel. | |
| |
| We have too long been friends | 5 |
| On foot and in gilded coaches, | |
| Now that the whole thing ends, | |
| To spoil our kiss with reproaches. | |
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| I leave you; my soul is wrung; | |
| I pause, look back from the portal— | 10 |
| Ah, I no more am young, | |
| And you, child, you are immortal! | |
| |
| Mine is the glacier’s way, | |
| Yours is the blossom’s weather— | |
| When were December and May | 15 |
| Known to be happy together? | |
| |
| Before my kisses grow tame, | |
| Before my moodiness grieve you, | |
| While yet my heart is flame, | |
| And I all lover, I leave you. | 20 |
| |
| So, in the coming time, | |
| When you count the rich years over, | |
| Think of me in my prime, | |
| And not as a white-haired lover. | |
| |
| Fretful, pierced with regret, | 25 |
| The wraith of a dead Desire | |
| Thrumming a cracked spinet | |
| By a slowly dying fire. | |
| |
| When, at last, I am cold— | |
| Years hence, if the gods so will it— | 30 |
| Say, “He was true as gold,” | |
| And wear a rose in your fillet! | |
| |
| Others, tender as I, | |
| Will come and sue for caresses, | |
| Woo you, win you, and die— | 35 |
| Mind you, a rose in your tresses! | |
| |
| Some Melpomene woo, | |
| Some hold Clio the nearest; | |
| You, sweet Comedy—you | |
| Were ever sweetest and dearest! | 40 |
| |
| Nay, it is time to go. | |
| When writing your tragic sister | |
| Say to that child of woe | |
| How sorry I was I missed her. | |
| |
| Really I cannot stay, | 45 |
| Though “parting is such sweet sorrow” … | |
| Perhaps I will, on my way | |
| Down-town, look in to-morrow! | | | | |
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