So trim it was. The yew-trees still, With pious care perverted, Grew in the same grim shapes; and still The lipless dolphin spurted; Still in his wonted state abode Only,—as fresh young Beauty gleams So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams For idle mallet, hoop, and ball Round which the swifts were flying; And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, A Persian cat was sitting. "A place to love in,-live,—for If we too, like Tithonus, aye, Could find some God to stretch the gray, Scant life the Fates have thrown us; "But now by steam we run our race, "The time is out of joint.' Who will, II. "Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be, For Father's gone to Chorley Fair with Sam, And Mother 's storing Apples,-Prue and Me Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam: But we shall meet before a Week is gone,"Tis a long Lane that has no Turning,' John! "Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait "John, she's so smart,—with every Ribbon new, Flame-coloured Sack, and Crimson Padesoy; As proud as proud; and has the Vapours too, Just like My Lady;-calls poor Sam a Boy, "My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch, III. This was the matter of the note, A long-forgot deposit, Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat, Piled with a dapper Dresden world,— Bonzes with squat legs undercurled, - Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed! You had no thought or presage Into what keeping you dismissed Your simple old-world message! A reverent one. Though we to-day The artless, ageless things you say Starring some pure primeval spring, I need not search too much to find That feel upon me yet the kind, And see, through two score years of smoke, The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed; And still the sweet half-solemn look Where some past thought was clinging, As when one shuts a serious book I kneel to you! Of those you were, Whom some old store of garnered grief, Peace to your soul! You died unwedDespite this loving letter. And what of John? The less that's said Of John, I think, the better. |