Verse > Anthologies > Fuess and Stearns, eds. > The Little Book of Society Verse
Fuess and Stearns, comps.  The Little Book of Society Verse.  1922.
A Nice Correspondent
By Frederick Locker-Lampson
        An angel at noon, she ’s a woman at night.
All softness, and sweetness, and love, and delight.

THE GLOW and the glory are plighted
  To darkness, for evening is come;
The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted,
  The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I’m alone at my casement, for Pappy        5
  Is summoned to dinner to Kew:
I’m alone, dearest Fred, but I’m happy—
            I’m thinking of you.
I wish you were here! Were I duller
  Than dull, you’d be dearer than dear;        10
I am drest in your favorite colour—
  Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I’m wearing my lazuli necklace,
  The necklace you fasten’d askew!
Was there ever so rude or so reckless        15
            A darling as you?
I want you to come and pass sentence
  On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know “Janet’s Repentance”?
  I’m reading Sir Waverley Scott,        20
The story of Edgar and Lucy,
  How thrilling, romantic, and true!
The Master (his bride was a goosey!)
            Reminds me of you.
They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning        25
  A poet whose garland endures;
It was you who first spouted me Browning,—
  That stupid old Browning of yours!
His vogue and his verve are alarming,
  I’m anxious to give him his due,        30
But, Fred, he’s not nearly so charming
            A poet as you!
I know how you shot at the Beeches,
  I saw how you rode Chanticleer,
I have heard the report of your speeches,        35
  And echo’d the echoing cheer.
There’s a whisper of hearts you are breaking,
  Dear Fred, I believe it, I do!
Small marvel that Fashion is making
            Her idol of you.        40
Alas for the world, and its dearly
  Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss;
Sometimes I half wish I were merely
  A plain or a penniless miss;
But, perhaps, one is best “with a measure        45
  Of pelf,” and I’m not sorry, too,
That I’m pretty, because ’t is a pleasure,
            My darling, to you!
Your whim is for frolic and fashion,
  Your taste is for letters and art;—        50
This rhyme is the commonplace passion
  That glows in a fond woman’s heart:
Lay it by in a dainty deposit
  For relics—we all have a few!
Love, some day they’ll print it, because it        55
            Was written to you.

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