A PLEASANT EVENING

What flurrying of rains and snows!

Now every coachman, blue of nose,

In fur and ire

Sits petrified. Oh, it were right

To spend this wild December night

Before one's fire!

The cosy chimney-corner chair

Assumes its most persuasive air.

I seem to see

Its arms held out, its voice to hear,

Beseeching like a mistress dear:

"Ah, stay with me!"

A gauze reveals the orbed lamp,

Like a fair breast beneath a guimpe,

And drowsily

The shimmer of its light ascends,

Flushing with gold and crimson blends

The ceiling high.

The silence frames no sound of things,

Save for the pendulum that swings

Its golden disk,

And many winds that roam and weep,

Or stealthy to the hall-way sweep,

To dance and frisk.

It's ball-night at the Embassy.

My coat's limp sleeves are signalling me

To dress anon.

My waistcoat yawns. My shirt obtuse

Seems raising high its wristbands loose,

To be put on.

A narrow boot's abundant glaze

Reflects the ruddy firelight's blaze.

Have I forgot?

A glove's flat fingers span the shelf.

A thin cravat protrudes itself,

And begs a knot.

Then must I forth? But what a bore--

To seek the over-crowded door!

To fall in line

Of coaches bearing coats of arms

And haughty beauties with their charms,

Superb and fine!

To stand against a portal wide

And see the surging mass inside

Bear form on form:

Old faces, faces fresh and young,

Black coats low bodices among,--

A motley swarm!

And puffy backs that hide their red

With laces fine of costly thread

Aerial,

Dandies, diplomatists, that press,

With features dull, expressionless,

At fashion's call.

What! Brave, to win a glance of hers,

The rows of lynx-eyed dowagers!

Try undeterred

To speak the dear name of my dear,

And whisper softly in her ear

Love's little word!

Nay, but I'll not! Her eye shall heed

A letter in the flowers I'll speed.

No ball-room now!

Let Parma violets make good

Whatever be her passing mood.

They hold my vow.

Ensconced with Heine or with Taine,

Or, if I like, the Goncourts twain,

The time will go.

I'll dream, until the hour shall stir

Reality, and wait for her.

She'll come, I know.

Enamels and Cameos and other Poems · 第 69 / 70 题