“Martiis cælebs quid agam Kalendis, ——— miraris?” —Horace iii. 8. 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 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; 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 Your cynic questions. 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; 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, 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, Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face That beckoned to me. We shut our heart up nowadays, Like some old music-box that plays Unfashionable airs that raise Derisive pity; Alas,—a nothing starts the spring; And lo, the sentimental thing At once commences quavering Its lover’s ditty. 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,— That 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, 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 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. Pass me the wine. To Those that keep The bachelor’s secluded sleep Peaceful, inviolate, and deep, I pour libation.
A Gage D’Amour
More from Poet
-
’t Is an old dial, dark with many a stain; In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, And white in winter like a marble tomb. And round about its gray, time-eaten brow Lean letters speak,—a worn and shattered row: I am a Shade; a Shadowe too...
-
In Memoriam Nec turpem senectam Degere, nec cithara carentem. “NOT to be tuneless in old age!” Ah! surely blest his pilgrimage, Who, in his winter’s snow, Still sings with note as sweet and clear As in the morning of the year When the first violets blow! Blest!—but more blest, whom...
-
That Belonged to the Marquise de Pompadour (Ballade) CHICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou! Picture above, if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew,— This was the Pompadour’s fan! See how...
-
When the ways are heavy with mire and rut, In November fogs, in December snows, When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,— There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb, And a...
-
“On a l’âge de son cœur.” —A. d’HOUDETOT. A LITTLE more toward the light. Me miserum. Here ’s one that ’s white, And one that ’s turning; Adieu to song and “salad days.” My Muse, let ’s go at once to Jay’s And order mourning. We must reform our rhymes, my dear, Renounce...