Puslapio vaizdai
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LAWRENCE.

Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited
Back from the brows, imperially curled;
Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid,
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 :
Mine's a musician,-musical at heart,-
Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven,
Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart.

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.

FRANK.

Better the twilight and the cheery chatting,-
Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat,
Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting,
Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet.

LAWRENCE.

All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her
Round with so delicate divinity, that men
Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger,
Bend to the goddess, manifest again.

FRANK.

None worship mine.

But some, I fancy, love her,

Seeing her come, for

naught that I discover,

Cynics to boot. I know the children run,

Save that she brings the summer and the sun.

LAWRENCE.

Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly,
Crowned with a sweet, continual control,
Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely
E'en to her own nobility of soul.

FRANK.

Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure,
Fearless in praising, faltering in blame:
Simply devoted to other people's pleasure,-
Jack's sister Florence,-now you know her name.

LAWRENCE.

"Jack's sister Florence!" Never, Francis, never.

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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.

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?

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