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 For idle mallet, hoop, and ball Round which the swifts were flying; And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, "A place to love in,-live,-for aye, If we too, like Tithonus, 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, For me, this warm old window-sill, 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, And vows no Sweet-heart 's worth the Thinking-on Till he 's past Thirty. . . I know better, John! "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, Deep in a fragrant closet, Piled with a dapper Dresden world,— Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed! 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 unwed-Despite this loving letter. And what of John? The less that's said Of John, I think, the better. |