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My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much Before we knew each other, I and you; And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch, Gives me enough to think a Summer through. See, for I send you Something! There, 'tis gone! Look in this corner,-mind you find it, John !”
This was the matter of the note,-
Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat,
Piled with a dapper Dresden world,—
Ah, heart that wrote!
Ah, lips that kissed!
You had no thought or presage
A reverent one.
Though we to-day
Distrust beliefs and powers,
The artless, ageless things you say
A DEAD LETTER
Starring some pure primeval spring,
I need not search too much to find
And see, through two score years of smoke,
The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed;
And still the sweet half-solemn look
I kneel to you!
Of those you were,
Whose kind old hearts grow mellow,—
Whose fair old faces grow more fair
As Point and Flanders yellow;
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.
A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL
A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD
HE lived in that past Georgian day,
When men were less inclined to say
That "Time is Gold," and overlay
With toil their pleasure;
He held some land, and dwelt thereon,—
Reynolds has painted him,-a face
The eyes are blue, the hair is drest
With buds brocaded.
He wears a brown old Brunswick coat,
A soft cravat ;-in all you note
An elder fashion,
A strangeness, which, to us who shine
He lived so long ago, you see!
He found it quite enough for him
He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue,He liked the thrush that stopped and sung,— He liked the drone of flies among
His netted peaches;
He liked to watch the sunlight fall
His were the times of Paint and Patch,