LAWRENCE. Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited Holding the roof that covers in a world. FRANK. Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn; Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing, Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn. LAWRENCE. Best is the song with the music interwoven : FRANK. Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad, Queen at a picnic, leader of the glees, Not too divine to toss you up a salad, Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees. LAWRENCE. Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping torches, Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches, Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm. AN AUTUMN IDYLL FRANK. Better the twilight and the cheery chatting,- Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, LAWRENCE. All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her None worship mine. FRANK. But some, I fancy, love her,— Cynics to boot. I know the children run, Seeing her come, for naught that I discover, Save that she brings the summer and the sun. LAWRENCE. Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly, FRANK. Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure, LAWRENCE. "Jack's sister Florence!" Never, Francis, never. You'll get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare. Sorry to differ. Jack, the word's with you. FRANK. How is it, Umpire? Though the motto's thread bare, "Cœlum, non animum "—is, I take it, true. JACK. "Souvent femme varie," as a rule, is truer; Flattered, I'm sure, but both of you romance. Happy to further suit of either wooer, Merely observing-you haven't got a chance. AN AUTUMN IDYLL LAWRENCE. Yes. But the Pipe FRANK. The Pipe is what we care for, JACK. Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain, Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore, Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain. A GARDEN IDYLL A LADY. A POET. THE LADY. IR POET, ere you crossed the lawn SIR (If it was wrong to watch you, pardon), Behind this weeping birch withdrawn, I watched you saunter round the garden. I saw you bend beside the phlox, Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle, Review my well-ranged hollyhocks, Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle; You paused beneath the cherry-tree, Where my marauder thrush was singing, Peered at the bee-hives curiously, And narrowly escaped a stinging; And then-you see I watched-you passed Down the espalier walk that reaches Out to the western wall, and last Dropped on the seat before the peaches. What was your thought? You waited long. Sublime or graceful,-grave,-satiric? A Morris Greek-and-Gothic song? A tender Tennysonian lyric? |