Let my Bettina take it not amiss
Nor deem that from my side I wish to shove her
If I forego the too, too poignant bliss
Of her adjacence in the hedgerow's cover,
Where I propose to lurk
And do among the driven birds some deadly work.
Linked in the dance, you cannot be too near,
Nor where the waves permit our joint immersion;
Dinners or theatres yield an added cheer
With you beside me to afford diversion
From thoughts of play or platter,
And not of fundamental things that really matter.
But here, where my immortal soul, afire
With fervour savouring almost of religion,
Fain would pursue, unvexed, its one desire--
To down the partridge or the errant pigeon,
What if you stood (or sat)
Close by and asked me if I liked your latest hat?
I could not bear it; you would sap my nerve;
My hand and eye would cease to work together;
I could not rightly gauge the covey's swerve,
And, swinging round to spray the rearmost feather,
I might mislay my wits
And blow your smart confection into little bits.
Go rather where he stands, a field away,
Yon youth who likes himself; go there, my Betty,
Beguile his vision; round his trigger lay
"One strangling golden hair" (D. G. ROSSETTI).
That ought to spoil his feats
And keep him fairly quiet in between the beats.
But later, when the luncheon-hour is come,
Be near me all you will; for then your prattle
Will be most welcome with its pleasant hum
So out of place amid the stress of battle;
Over an Irish stew,
With "Bristol cream" to top it, I am _tout à vous_.
Not that your virtues have no higher use;
Such gifts would grace the loftiest position;
But where the birds come down wind like the deuce
I mark the limit of your woman's mission;
In other circs, elsewhere,
"A ministering angel thou"; but not just there.
SIR OWEN SEAMAN.
Oct. 11, 1911.