(_Induced by smoking "Pagan Pickings."_)
I
_This is something that I heard,_
_As the fluting of a bird,_
_On a certain drowsy day,_
_When my pipe was under way._
_I was weary of the town,_
_And the going up and down;_
_Sick of streets and sick of noise,--_
_And I pined for Pagan joys._
Daphne, here it is July!
Just the month, my love, to fly
To a sylvan solitude
In the green and ancient wood.
We will trip it as we go
On the neo-Pagan toe,
Sunny days and starry nights,
Savoring the wild delights
Of a turbulent desire
That may set the wood on fire.
We will play at hunt-the-fawn,
In the neo-Dorian dawn.
You will scamper through the brake,
And I'll follow in your wake--
As the young Apollo ran
In the piping days of Pan.
You'll escape me, without doubt,
For I'm just a trifle stout;
But, when I have lagged behind,
Waiting for my second wynde,
From some pretty hiding-place
Will emerge your laughing face;
I shall glimpse your eyes of blue,
Hear your merry "Peek-a-boo!"
What to wear? The Pagan plan
Contemplates a coat of tan;
But I fear we shall require
Just a trifle more attire.
Bushes scratch and brambles sting;
Insect myriads are a-wing;--
Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm
When the woodland air is warm.
(MEM: To take, when we elope,
Tanglewood Mosquito Dope.)
Do you like the picture, dear?
Have you aught of doubt or fear?
Have you any criticism
Of my neo-Paganism?
If not, dearie, let us fly
To that passion-ripening sky,
Where our souls may have their fling,
And our every care take wing.
_So the bird song fluted by,_
_Like a vagrant summer sigh--_
_Came, and passed, and was no more;_
_And my pleasant dream was o'er._
_For arose the wraith of Doubt;_
_And I knew my pipe was out._