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 !” III 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 SCHOOL 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 Inspires compassion. 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, |