A CITY FLOWER "Il y a des fleurs animées.” -POLITE COLLOQUIALISM. To and fro in the City I go, Tired of the ceaseless ebb and flow, Tired of the din and rattle of wheels, The dust is over his heart. And again and again, as the sunlight wanes, And when about Rimmel's the perfumes play, And I love how I love-the plants that fill A sensitive sickly crop, But a flower that charms me more, I think, Than cowslip, or crocus, or rose, or pink, Blooms-in a milliner's shop. Hazel eyes that wickedly peep, Ripple of hair that rioteth out, On the bloom-bent bough, and the bough is stirred And the butterfly wakes to a wiry life, And all the bonnets nid-noddle about, How can I otherwise choose than look So I feel somehow that every day INCOGNITA INCOGNITA UST for a space that I met her— JUST I It began when she feared it would wet her, So we tucked a great rug in the sashes, Then it grew when she begged me to reach her A dressing-case under the seat; She was "really so tiny a creature, That she needed a stool for her feet!" And a glance Then it drooped, and revived at some hovels— "Were they houses for men or for pigs?" Then it shifted to muscular novels, With a little digression on prigs : She thought "Wives and Daughters" "so jolly"; "Had I read it?" She knew when I had, Like the rest, I should dote upon Molly"; And "poor Mrs. Gaskell-how sad!" "Like Browning?" "But so-so." His proof lay Yet at times he was good-" as a tonic": And clever, and naughty, or how? Then we trifled with concerts and croquêt, And oh the odd things that she quoted, While her talk like a musical rillet Flashed on with the hours that flew; Till at last in her corner, peeping INCOGNITA She seemed like a snow-drop breaking, But with one blind impulse making To the sounds of the spring overhead; And I watched in the lamplight's swerving But she suddenly woke in a fidget, With fears she was "nearly at home," And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget, Whom I mentally wished-well, at Rome; Got out at the very next station, Looking back with a merry Bon Soir; Adding, too, to my utter vexation, So left me to muse on her graces, To doze and to muse, till I dreamed That we sailed through the sunniest places In a glorified galley, it seemed; But the cabin was made of a carriage, And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne, And we split on a rock labelled MARRIAGE, And I woke,-as cold as a stone. |