Story of the Gate

Harrison Robertson (1856–1939)

ACROSS the pathway, myrtle-fringed,

Under the maple, it was hinged—

The little wooden gate;

’T was 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-bye!”

“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.