Page 27 - Poetry-Romance

Fly over heads; creep under. Come, oh come!
Escape. We’ll find no poetry at home.”

And all the while did that dull poem creep
Drearily on, till, sick at last with sleep,
My eyes fixed straight before me with a stare,
I groaned within me:
“Come, my hat—fresh air!
My darling, let us both get out together.
Here all is hot and close; outside the weather
Is simply perfect, and the pavement’s dry.
Come, come, my hat—one effort! Do but try.
Sweet thoughts the silence and soft moon will stir
Beneath thy shelter.”
Here a voice cried:
“Sir!
Have you done staring at my daughter yet?
By Jove! sir”
My astonished glance here met
The angry red face of my cuirassier.
I did not quail before his look severe,
But said, politely,
“Pardon, sir, but I
Do not so much as know her.”
“What, sir! Why,
My daughter’s yonder, sir, beside that table.
Pink ribbons, sir. Don’t tell me you’re unable
To understand.”
“But, sir—”
“I don’t suppose
You mean to tell me—”
“Really—”
“Who but knows
Your way of dealing with young ladies, sir?
I’ll have no trifling, if you please, with her.”
“Trifling?”
“Yes, sir. You know you’ve jilted five.
Every one knows it—every man alive.”
“Allow me—”
“No, sir. Every father knows
Your reputation, damaging to those
Who—”

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