’TIS but a box, of modest deal;
Directed to no matter where:
Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal—
Yes, I am blubbering like a seal;
For on it is this mute appeal,
“_With care_.”
I am a stern cold man, and range
Apart: but those vague words “_With care_”
Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange:
Drawn from my moral Moated Grange,
I feel I rather like the change
Of air.
Hast thou ne’er seen rough pointsmen spy
Some simple English phrase—“_With care_”
Or “_This side uppermost_”—and cry
Like children? No? No more have I.
Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry
A bear.
But ah! what treasure hides beneath
That lid so much the worse for wear?
A ring perhaps—a rosy wreath—
A photograph by Vernon Heath—
Some matron’s temporary teeth
Or hair!
Perhaps some seaman, in Peru
Or Ind, hath stow’d herein a rare
Cargo of birds’ eggs for his Sue;
With many a vow that he’ll be true,
And many a hint that she is too,
Too fair.
Perhaps—but wherefore vainly pry
Into the page that’s folded there?
I shall be better by and by:
The porters, as I sit and sigh,
Pass and repass—I wonder why
They stare!