What if I kissed her? Jealous they
Who scoff at buyers in true love's mart.
Who can my sound good sense gainsay
If I confess I lost my heart?
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator_.
~Perdita.~
'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,
But it once belonged to Grace.
The goody didn't know that, I suppose--
'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,
No longer sweet to the eye or nose,
So she tossed it out from the Dresden vase.--
'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,
But it once belonged to Grace.
_Harvard Advocate_.
~Strategy.~
Some, Cupid kills with arrows,
Some, with traps;
But this spring the little rascal
Found, perhaps,
That he needed both to slay me;
So he laid a cunning snare
On the hillside, and he hid it
In a lot of maidenhair;
And I doubt not he is laughing
At the joke,
For he made his arrows out of
Poison-oak.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.
_Sequoia_.
~Canoe Song.~
Dip! Dip! Softly slip
Down the river shining wide,
Dim and far the dark banks are;
Life is love and naught beside.
Onward, drifting with the tide.
Drip, drip, from paddle tip
Myriad ripples swirl and swoon;
Shiv'ring 'mid the ruddy stars,
Mirrored in the deep lagoon,
Faintly floats the mummied moon.
Soft, soft, high aloft,--
Ever thus till time is done,--
Worlds will die; may thou and I
Glide beneath a gentler sun,
Young as now and ever one.
E. FRÈRE CHAMPNEY.
_Harvard Advocate._
~A Rambling Rhyme of Dorothy.~
When ye Crocuss shews his heade
& ye Wyndes of Marche have flede,
Springe doth come, and happylye
Then I thinke of
Dorothy.
Haycockes fragrante in ye sun
Give me reste when taskes are done:
Summer's here, & merrylye
Then I dreame of
Dorothy.
Scarlette leaves & heapinge binne;
Cyder, ye cool Tankard in;
Autumn's come. Righte jollylye
Then I drinke to
Dorothy.
When ye Northe Wynde sweeps ye snowe
& Icyclles hange all belowe,
Then, for soothe, Olde Winter, he
Letts me dance with
Dorothy!
ARTHUR CHENEY TRAIN.
_Harvard Advocate._
~The Prof.'s Little Girl.~
She comes to the Quad when her Ladyship pleases,
And loiters at will in the sun and the shade;
As free from the burden of work as the breezes
That play with the bamboo is this little maid.
The tongues of the bells, as they beat out the morning,
Like mad in their echoing cases may whirl
Till they weary of calling her,--all their sharp warning
Is lost on the ear of the prof's little girl.
With a scarred-over heart that is old in the knowledge
Of all the manoeuvres and snares of the Hall,
Grown wary of traps in its four years at college,
And able at last to keep clear of them all,--
Oh, what am I doing away from my classes
With a little blue eye and a brown little curl?
Ah me! fast again, and each precious hour passes
In slavery sweet to the prof's little girl.
She makes me a horse, and I mind her direction,
Though it takes me o'er many a Faculty green;
I'm pledged to the cause of her pussy's protection
From ghouls of the Lab and the horrors they mean;
I pose as the sire of a draggled rag dolly
Who owns the astonishing title of Pearl;--
And I have forgotten that all this is folly,
So potent the charm of the prof's little girl!
Yet, spite of each sacrifice made to impress her,
She smiles on my rival. Oh, vengeance I'd gain!
But he wears the same name as my major professor,
And so in his graces I have to remain;
And when she trots off with this juvenile lover,
Leaving me and the cat and the doll in a whirl,
It's pitiful truly for us to discover
The signs of her sex in the prof's little girl.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.
_Four-Leaved Clover._
~Gertrude.~
Fair Gertrude lives at Farmington,
Perhaps you've seen her there;
Her eyes delight in laughing light,
Let gods describe her hair;
Her figure--well, grave Juno ne'er
Had half the supple grace
Of Gertrude fair of Farmington--
Perhaps you know that place?
Beneath her lips there gleam two rows
Of greed-inspiring pearls;
Such rows of teeth the gods bequeath
To but their choicest girls.
For other things at Farmington
I do not care a rap,
Although it is a lovely place--
I've seen it (on the map).
I would the gods had given me
Some mild poetic skill;
In Gertrude's praise I'd sing for days,
And volumes I could fill.
Perhaps you think I love this maid--
In sooth perhaps I do;
Well, If I did, I'd tell her--
But, by Jove, I'd not tell _you._
J.H. Scranton
_Yale Record._
~My Politics.~
I am for gold--her golden hair
Whose mesh my soul entrances;
Caressing this, what do I care
For national finances?
For silver, too--those silver tones
That with her laughter rise;
This wealth, thank God. no law or thrones
Can e'er demonetize.
G.W. PIERCE.
_University of Texas Magazine._
~The Summer Girl.~
A half-reclining form
In a "sleepy-hollow" chair,
A cloud of curls that storm
About her beauty fair,
Two laughing eyes that tell
A shyly answered "Yes."
A dainty hand to--well,
Say simply to caress.
An airy little sprite
In a billowy flood of lace,
Which flutters in its flight
In the galop's tripping grace.
And, oh, the broken hearts
Which follow the rapturous whirl!
Oh, the Redfern gown, and the arts
Of the annual summer girl!
EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER.
_Dartmouth Literary Monthly._
~Love's Token.~
The frost and snow of mistletoe,
The warmth of holly berry,
These I combine, O lady mine,
To make thy yule-tide merry.
And shouldst thou learn, sweet, to return
My love, nor deem it folly,
Twined in thy hair the snow fruit wear,
And on thy breast the holly.
ALICE R. TAGGART.
_Vassar Miscellany_.
~A Passing Song.~
Ah, only love I have ever known,
Ah, only love I shall ever know,
The careless hours of youth have flown
And the light-hearted past to the winds is thrown,
And faster and faster the hours go.
To your heart and mine there's a secret lying
While the spring's breath thrills in the air of May,
While life seems ever to be defying
The flight of time and the thought of dying,
And the great world runs on its careless way.
Yet one dear thought in my heart is resting
As I face the path I must tread ere long,
When wearied with life's unending questing,
Its tawdry joys and its idle jesting,
I shall pass to the midst of the missing throng.
That here I have known your heart's dear thrilling,
Your helping hand and your watchful eye,
My life with your tender love fulfilling.
I know but this, and am strangely willing
To learn your love and in learning--die.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator_.
~Safe.~
When I picked up her glove
I let Fate decide it.
So great was my love,
When I picked up her glove;
'Twas as soft as a dove
_And her hand was inside it._
When I picked up her glove
I let Fate decide it.
W.
_Columbia Spectator._
~Her Winsome Smile.~
Her winsome smile! It beams on me
From where the choir makes melody,
Behind the parson; maid demure,
Her witching eyes my thoughts allure,
Although, in church, this should not be.
Pale Luna's light, the dimpling sea,
Are very taking, I'll agree;
But to her smile all else is poor--
Her winsome smile.
The preacher, in a mournful key,
Shoves on the Year of Jubilee,
Shows present times without a cure,
With pessimistic portraiture--
His back is turned, he cannot see
Her winsome smile.
HARRY KEISER MUNROE.
_Wesleyan Argus._
~The Summer Girl.~
I wooed her in the summer months,
When all the world was gay,
And on the hillside, in the sun,
The yellow harvest lay,
And late, across the level lawns,
The twilight met the day.
Together, in the garden walks,
At early morn we went;
Together, in the deep green groves,
The drowsy noontide spent;
And in the evening watched how well
The sunset glories blent.
Oh, happy morn! The trysting oak
Hung o'er the orchard gate.
I waited for her in the shade---
I had quite long to wait,
For with the coachman she eloped
And left me to my fate.
_Yale Record._
~Phyllis's Slippers.~
Before the firelight's genial glow
She sits, and dreams of waltzes sweet,
Nor heeds the curious gleams that show
Grandmamma's slippers on her feet.
Ah, happy slippers, thus to hold
So rare a burden! It were meet
That you should be of beaten gold
To clasp so close such dainty feet.
H. A. RICHMOND.
_The Tech_.
~Vindication.~
Pray, why do maidens ever stand beneath
The mistletoe?
And why was ever hung the mystic wreath--
Why should it grow?
And why were laughing eyes and lashes made,
If not to tease?
And such an opportunity displayed,
If not to seize?
Why, pouting lips should always ready be
To catch a kiss.
If cheeks will blush, why, it is plain to see
'Tis not amiss.
And when a maiden sweet, and roguish eyes,
And mistletoe,
And madd'ning lips, while telltale blushes rise,
A-teasing so--
Think you that I all idle waiting sat
To see her go?
Did I believe when she insisted that
She didn't know?
ARTHUR MAURICE SMITH.
_Wrinkle_.
~To an Imaginary One.~
Say, darling, do you love me true?
Return you my affection?
Pray answer as I want you to,
And speak with circumspection.
Don't blurt me out a _yes, chérie_,
And throw your arms around me:
A lack of maiden modesty
Would shock me and confound me.
Be distant as the morning star,
Nor let me know how real,
How most material you are--
My love is too ideal.
Yes, be a little bit afraid,
And make a sweet resistance;
So near, a maid is but a maid,
A goddess at a distance.
Still deign to play the charmer, dear,
Blush while you're thinking of me,
Breathe coyest wordlets in mine ear,
But _don't_ confess you love me!
HENRY B. EDDY.
_Harvard Advocate_.
~When Gladys Plays.~
When Gladys plays in gladsome glee,
All men and gods might wish to see.
With flushing cheek and flashing eye
She strokes the ball or lobs it high,
With cuts of great variety.
The ball hides in some blooming tree,
And sorely tries poor patient me;
But I swear not, oh, no! not I,
When Gladys plays.
When whist with all propriety,
As Foster, Hoyle, or Pole decree,
We play together, although my
Good ace she trumps, I merely sigh
And grant the points to the enemy,
When Gladys plays.
FERRIS GREENSLET.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly._
~At the Club.~
When a pretty maiden passes
By the window down the Street,
Cards and billiards lose their sweet;
Conversation on old brasses
Languishes; up go the glasses:
"Nice complexion!" "Dainty feet!"
When a pretty maiden passes
By the window down the street
Smith forgets the "toiling masses,"
Robinson, the fall in wheat;
All the club is indiscreet.
Ah, the wisest men are asses
When a pretty maiden passes
By the window down the street!
RICHARD HOVEY.
_Dartmouth Lyrics._
~Friends.~
The wintry sky may be chill and drear,
And the wind go sighing in mournful strain,
Or it may be the spring of the waking year,
When flowers and birds return again.
Be it March or May, it matters not,
Snow or violets on the ground,
I know a little bewitching spot,
Where it is fair the whole year round.
A low tea-table set out for two,
A divan with cushions piled on high,
Dresden tea-cups of pink and blue,
A fat little kettle simmering nigh,
In winter a fire that cracks and roars,
In summer a window where breezes play.
What if it hails or snows or pours,
In that little spot it is always May.
A girl--of course, you will say, when one
Describes such a haven from life's mad whirl.
There must be a--wait till my song is done.
This is _such_ an entrancing girl!
Cheeks as fresh as a summer rose,
Eyes that change like the changing sea,
Lips where a smile first comes, then goes.
And, oh! but she makes delicious tea.
So we sit and talk while the kettle sings,
And. life seems better at least to me,
The fleeting hours have golden wings,
When in that little spot I'm drinking tea.
Love? Ah, no, we are far above
Such folly. Our time we can better spend.
This world is brimming with loveless love,
But 'tis rarely enough one finds a friend.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator._
~Another Complaint Against Cupid.~
Wherever maidens may be found
Dan Cupid's sure to wander round,
I found him once, the little fool,
Attending on a cooking-school.
The scholars only laughed and smiled,
And cried: "How sweet, how smart a child!"
He kept his wings close hid, yet I
Remembered him from days gone by,
And, stepping up, I whispered this:
"My boy, compound for me a kiss."
His face grew thoughtful, then the rogue
Lisped out: "Well, _this_ is most in vogue:
An acorn-cup of sugar first,
Sprinkle quite well with bubbles burst,
Then add a pinch of down that lies
All over June's brown butterflies.
Mix well, and take, to stir it up,
The stem of one long buttercup.
But, sir, you ne'er can taste a mite
Until I add the appetite."
Whereat, ere I could turn to start,
I saw--I _felt_ the flashing dart.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
_Olla Podrida._
~Sub-Mistletoe.~
We two stood near
The chandelier,
With mistletoe upon it.
A lovely girl,
My head awhirl,
Her wrap--I'll help her don it.
A button caught;
I surely ought
To help, when she'd begun it.
A pause, a hush,
A kiss, a blush,
And now, by Jove, I've done it!
_Lehigh Burr_.
~She Sayeth "No."~
She sayeth "No"--my lady fair--
And lightly laughs at my despair.
She quick evades my least caress,
Nor grants to me a single tress
From out her wealth of golden hair.
Yet to her cheeks creeps crimson rare,
When I for her my love declare.
But while her blue eyes tell me "Yes,"
She sayeth "No."
The maid well knows I would not dare
Try to escape her gentle snare.
And, if I really must confess,
I own I trust her lips far less
Than her blue eyes beyond compare.
She _sayeth_ "No."
BERTRAND A. SMALLEY.
_Dartmouth Literary Monthly._
~Silhouettes.~
Grandma's shadow on the wall,
Graceful figure, slim and tall,
Shadow of a maiden fair,
Lofty head, with rippling hair,
Nose "la Grecque" from Hebe stole:
Charming, very, on the whole,
Is this shadow on the wall,
Fifty years ago,--that's all.
Grandpa's shadow on the wall,
Straight this shadow is, and tall;
(Nose "la Roman," we might say)
Stately mien, and courtly way;
Now it's deeply bowing, oh!
But see! for kneeling low
Is this shadow on the wall,
Fifty years ago,--that's all.
* * * *
Grandma's shadow on the wall,
Bent this figure is, not tall;
Shadow in a rocking-chair,
Rocking gently,--now with care;
Now it nodding, nodding seems.
Do you think this shadow dreams
Of some shadows on the wall
Fifty years ago,--that's all?
ANNIE KNOWLTON PILLSBURY.
_Mount Holyoke_.
~Bread and Wine.~
All day work in the shops,
The weary tread
Of toil that knows no change.
And this is bread.
At night when work is done,
Her hand in mine,
The hope of happier days,
And this is wine.
ELIZABETH REEVE CUTTER.
_Smith College Monthly._
~A Song.~
This I learned from the birds,
Dear heart,
And they told me in woodland words,
Apart,
And they told me true,
That all their singing the summer through
Was of you, of you.
This I learned from the flowers,
Dear heart,
In the dewy morning hours
Apart,
And they sware it, too,
That all their sweetness the summer through
Was for you, for you.
This I learned from the leaves,
Dear heart,
On stilly, starry eves
Apart,
Though their words were few,
That all their sighing the summer through
Was for you, for you.
This I learned from the stars,
Dear heart,--
From the Seven Sisters, and Mars,
Apart
In the boundless blue,--
That their light the lingering summer through
Was for you, for you.
This I learned from my life,
Dear heart,
'Mid its storms, and stress, and strife,
Apart,
(God knows it's true!)
That I need to love me my long way through,
Only you, dear, you.
FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD.
_Nassau Literary Monthly._
~Drifting.~
Drifting in our frail canoe
On the dusky, silent stream,
Dearest, see! The sunset-gleam
Fires love's torch for me and you.
Coral clouds and pearly sky,
Flaming in the farthest west,
Softly whisper peace and rest,
Peace and rest that never die.
Let us shun the sable shore,
Frowning at us slipping by.
Let's be happy, you and I,
Drifting, drifting evermore.
H. H. CHAMBERLIN, JR.
_Harvard Advocate._
~Cloudland.~
Over the hills, at the close of day,
Gazing with listless-seeming eyes,
Margery watches them sail away,
The sunlit clouds of the western skies.
Margery sighs with a vain regret,
As slowly they fade from gold to gray,
Till night has come, and the sun has set,
And the clouds have drifted beyond the day.
What are you dreaming, my little maid
For yours are beautiful thoughts, I know;
What were the words that the wild wind said,
And where, in the dark, did the cloud-ships go?
Come through the window and touch her hair,
Wind of the vast and starry deep!
And tell her not of this old world's care,
But kiss her softly and let her sleep.
_Columbia Literary Monthly._
~Two of a Kind.~