You say there's a sameness in my style,
You long for the savor of something new,
You tell me that love is not worth while,
You wish for verse that is strong and true.
Well, I will leave the choice to you--
Prose or poetry, short or long,
Only we'll let this be the cue--
Love is excluded from the song.
I'll sing of some old cathedral pile,
Where, as we sit in a carved oak pew,
The sunlight illumines nave and aisle,
And peace seems thrilling us through and through.
No? you don't think that will do?
How would you like a busy throng,
A battle, Elizabeth's retinue?
But love is excluded from the song.
A journey, a voyage, a tropic isle,
The hush of the forest, the ocean blue,
A lament for all that is false and vile,
A paean for all that is good and true.
Pompadour's fan, or Louis's queue,
Mournful or merry, right or wrong.
Subjects, you'll find, are not so few,
But love is excluded from the song.
Oh! for a song of yourself you sue!
Do you think you can trap me? You are wrong.
Sing of your eyes and your smile and--Pooh!
Love is excluded from the song.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator._
~How I Love Her.~
Dear, I'll tell you how I love you--
Not by singing sweetly of you--
Oh, I love you far too much,
For the daintiest rhyme's light touch;
No, it needs no language signs,
It's written here between the lines,
How I love you! You will see
If you look there, loving me.
C.B. NEWTON.
_Nassau Literary Monthly._
~Polly.~
She fluttered gaily down the hill--
That merry, dimpled lass--
She hurried singing down the hill,
And then she loitered by the mill,
And saw the bubbles pass,
Made double in the glass
Of the mirror of the water, greeny still.
She heard a sparrow pertly cry,
She smelt the new-mown hay,
She felt the sunshine in the sky,
As lightly she went skipping by,
A-down the sunny way--
'Twas like a holiday,
The keen, expectant sparkle in her eye.
And Cupid's wings were on her feet,
As nimbly she ran down;
And Cupid's wings were on her feet:
For pretty Polly went to meet
Her lover in the town.
She wore that lilac gown
That made him say--oh, nothing to repeat!
CHARLES W. SHOPE.
_Harvard Advocate_.
~Under the Rose.~
Last night the blush rose clustered,--
To-day the rough wind blows
In showers her broken petals;
Last night,--yet no one knows,--
I kissed thee, sweetheart, sweetheart,
Under the rose!
Last night my fond hope blossomed,--
To-day December snows
Drift deep and cold above it;
To-day,--ah! no one knows,--
My heart breaks, sweetheart, sweetheart,
Under the rose!
CATHERINE Y. GLEN.
_Mount Holyoke._
[Illustration: MT. HOLYOKE GIRL.]
~A Bit of Human Nature.~
'Tis only a pair of woman's eyes,
So long-lashed, soft, and brown,
Half hiding the light that in them lies,
As dreamily looking down.
'Tis only the dainty curve of a lip,
Half full, half clear defined,
And the shell-like pink of a finger-tip,
And a figure half reclined.
'Tis only a coil of rich, dark hair,
With sunlight sifted through,
And a truant curl just here and there,
And a knot of ribbon blue.
'Tis only the wave of a feather fan,
That ruffles the creamy lace,
Loose gathered about the bosom fair,
By rhinestones held in place.
'Tis only the toe of a high-heeled shoe,
With the glimpse of a color above--
A stocking tinted a faint sky-blue,
The shade that lovers love.
'Tis only a woman--a woman, that's all,
And, as only a woman can,
Bringing a heart to her beck and call
By waving her feather fan.
'Tis only a woman, and I--'twere best
To forget that waving fan.
She only a woman--you know the rest?
But I am only a man.
CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN.
_Virginia University Magazine._
~Her Little Glove.~
Her little glove, I dare aver,
Would set your pulses all astir;
It hides a something safe from sight
So soft and warm, so small and white,
A cynic would turn flatterer!
Could Pegasus have better spur?
'Twould almost cause a saint to err--
A Puritan to grow polite--
Her little glove.
'Twill satisfy a connoisseur,
This dainty thing of lavender;
And when it clasps her fingers tight
I think--I wonder if it's right--
That somehow--well--I wish _I_ were
Her little glove.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
_Wesleyan Verse_.
~Skating Hath Charms.~
So cold was the night,
And her cheeks were cold, too,
Though it wasn't quite right,
So cold was the night,
And so sad was her plight,
That I--well, wouldn't you?
So cold was the night,
And her cheeks were cold, too.
H.H.
_Amherst Literary Monthly._
~The Portrait.~
Pearls and patches, powder and paint,
This was her grandmother years ago.
Gown and coiffure so strange and quaint,
Features just lacking the prim of the saint,
From the mischievous dimple that lurks below;
High-heeled slippers and satin bow,
Red lips mocking the heart's constraint,
Free from passion, devoid of taint--
This was her grandmother years ago.
Straight and slender, gallant and tall.
Ah, how he loved her, years ago!
Just so she looked at that last dim ball,
When, in a niche of the dusk old hall,
They whispered together soft and low.
She whispered "yes," but fate answered "no:"
Some one listened and told it all,
And the horses might wait by the garden wall,
But none came to answer him, years ago.
So, standing, fresh as the rose on her breast,
Smiling down on me here below,
Never a care on her brow impressed,
Never the dream of a thought confessed
Of all the weariness and the woe,
Hearts would break were time not so slow.
Swept are life's chambers; comes the new guest.
Old love, or new love--which was the best?
For this was her grandmother years ago.
_Southern Collegian_.
~The Convert.~
I wrote lots of trash about Cupid,
And the telling bewitchment of curls,
And that men were excessively stupid
To be madly devoted to girls.
I remarked that true love was unstable,
As compared with position or pelf,
'Till one day I met you, little Mabel,
And learned what it felt like, myself!
Don't read all the things I have written
When I knew that my heart was my own,
But since I confess I am smitten,
Read these little verses alone.
And sincerely I trust I'll be able
To convince you, you sly little elf,
To grant me your heart, little Mabel,
And learn what it feels like yourself!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Literary Monthly_.
~A Thief's Apology.~
I stole a kiss!--What could I do?
Before the door we stood, we two,
About to say a plain good-by;
She seemed so innocent and shy,
But what she thought, I thought I knew.
Ah, swift the blissful moments flew,
And when at last I said adieu
(Perhaps you think me bold), but I--
I stole a kiss.
The tale is told; perhaps it's true,
Perhaps it was a deed to rue;
But when that look came in her eye
I thought she wished to have me try--
I don't know how 'twould been with you--
_I_ stole a kiss.
ROBERT PORTER ST. JOHN.
_Amherst Literary Monthly._
~A Ballad of Dorothy.~
It's "Dorothy! Where's Dorothy?"
From morn to even fall,
There's not a lad on Cowslip Farm
Who joins not in the call.
It's Dolly here and Dolly there,
Where can the maiden be?
No wench in all the countryside's
So fine as Dorothy.
With tucked-up gown and shining pail,
Before the day is bright,
Down dewy lanes she singing goes
Among the hawthorns white.
Perchance her roses need her care,
She tends them faithfully.
There's not a rose in all the world
As fresh and sweet as she!
With morning sunshine in her hair
A-churning Dolly stands:
Oh, happy chum, I envy it,
Held close between her hands;
And when the crescent moon hangs bright
Athwart the soft night sky,
Down shady paths we strolling go,
Just Dorothy and I.
As true of heart as sweet of face,
With gay and girlish air,
The painted belles of citydom
Are not a whit as fair.
Come Michaelmas the parish chimes
Will ring out merrily.
Who is the bride I lead to church?
Why, who but Dorothy?
ARTHUR KETCHUM.
_Williams Literary Monthly_.
~A Cup and Saucer Episode.~
'Twas only coffee, yet we both drank deep,
I won't deny I felt intoxication;
For just to see those roguish moon-eyes peep
Over the cup, I plunged in dissipation.
She raised her cup, and I raised also mine;
She gave a look, as if "Now are you ready?"
Our eyes met o'er the rims--it seemed like wine,
So sweet, divine, bewitching, almost "heady."
So cup on cup! The salad, too, was good.
I had of that far more than my fair rations.
Yet served it merely as an interlude
Between the music of the cup flirtations.
And then to have her say 'twas all my fault!
I fairly blushed, and gazed down at my cup.
I noticed, though, she had not called the halt
Until the pot was empty, every sup.
BERT ROSS.
_Harvard Advocate_.
~Faint Heart Ne'er Won Fair Lady.~
"The burn runs swiftly, my dainty lass,
And its foam-wreathed stones are mossy,
An I carry ye ower to yonder shore
Ye will na think me saucy?"
"I thank ye, sir, but a Scottish lass
Recks not of a little wetting.
Will ye stand aside, sir? I can na bide, sir.
The sun o' the gloamin's setting."
"Yet stay, my pretty, the stepping-stones
Are a bridge o' my are hands' making.
An ye pay no toll I maun be so bold--
The sweeter a kiss for taking."
"Farewell, ye braw young Highlander.
Tho' first ye sought to mask it:
Unceevil 'tis to steal a kiss.
But muckle waur to ask it."
CHARLES POTTER HINE.
_Yale Literary Magazine_.
~A Foreign Tongue.~
When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue,
Their words are not like ours,
But full of meanings like the throb of flowers
Yet in the earth, unborn. I think the snow
Feels the mysterious passage and the flow
Of inarticulate streams that surge below.
And it is easy learning for the young;
When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue.
ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH.
_Smith College Monthly_.
~Ye Gold-Headed Cane.~
It stands in the corner yet, stately and tall,
With a top that once shone like the sun.
It whispers of muster-field, playhouse, and ball,
Of gallantries, courtship, and fun.
It is hardly the stick for the dude of to-day,
He would swear it was deucedly plain,
But the halos of memory crown its decay--
My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
It could tell how a face in a circling calash
Grew red as the poppies she wore,
When a dandy stepped up with a swagger and dash.
And escorted her home to her door.
How the beaux cried with jealousy, "Jove! what a buck!"
As they glared at the fortunate swain,
And the wand which appeared to have fetched him his luck--
My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
It could tell of the rides in the grand yellow gig,
When, from under a broad scuttle hat,
The eyes of fair Polly were lustrous and big,
And--but no! would it dare tell of _that_?
Ah me! by those wiles that bespoke the coquette
How many a suitor was slain!
There was one, though, who conquered the foe when they met
With the gleam of his gold-headed cane.
Oh, the odors of lavender, lilac, and musk!
They scent these old halls even yet;
I can still see the dancers as down through the dusk
They glide in the grave minuet.
The small satin slippers, my grandmamma's pride,
Long, long in the chest have they lain;
Let us shake out the camphor and place them beside
My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly._
~Hours.~
Matchless, melting eyes of brown,
This is but a cheerless town;
You should beam 'neath warmer skies,
Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Yours should be a land of flowers,
Perfumed air and sunny hours;
Eastern fires within you rise,
Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Eyes of beauty, eyes of light,
Burning mystically bright,
Prithee here no longer stay,
You will burn my heart away.
W.
_Hamilton Literary Monthly_.
~A Fickle Heart.~
A fickle heart! Let subtler poets sing
Of changeless love and all that kind of thing,
Of hearts in which a passion never dies--
_My_ heart's as fickle as the summer skies
Across whose face the changing cloud-forms wing.
Unfailing loves unfailing troubles bring.
I love to touch on Cupid's harp each string,
Though each unto my questioning touch replies
A fickle heart.
So, 'twixt some thirty loves I'm wavering,
To each the same unstable vows I fling,
Reading the first glad gleam of love's surprise
In thirty pair of brown and azure eyes,
Finding in all the same thought answering;
A fickle heart.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator._
~My Lady goes to the Play.~
With the link-boys running on before
To light her on her way,
A-lounging in her sedan goes
Belinda to the play.
In patch and powder, puff and frill,
From satin shoe to hair,
Of all the maids in London town
I wot there's none so fair!
From Mayfair down along the Strand
To Covent Garden's light,
Where Master David Garrick acts
In a new rôle to-night,
The swinging sedan takes its way,
And with expectant air
Belinda fans, and wonders who
To-night there will be there.
Sir Charles, perhaps, or, happy thought,
Flushing thro' her powder,
He might come in--beneath her stays
She feels her heart beat louder.
The place, at last! The flunkies set
Their dainty burden down,
"Lud, what a crowd!" My Lady frowns
And gathers up her gown.