Page 67 - Poetry-Romance

I can’t say why or wherefore; each
Must draw his individual moral,
But ere we spoke three words we seemed
To quarrel.

It wasn’t that she pinched or dyed;
She didn’t, any more than I did;
Nor did she smoke, or favor skirts
Divided.

Nor were, as far as I could see,
Her stockings blue, nor red her tresses,
Nor did she love aesthetic fads
In dresses.

Nor was it that I ever found
Her fringe in curl the least bit lacking
Or chanced to note her shoes in need
Of blacking.

She’d none of these faults; yet dislike
Grew into hate; I couldn’t stop it;
Nor can I tell the reason now,
So drop it.

That she was handsome, I’ll admit,
And looked at times a very goddess,
Nay, more, a Venus plus a skirt
And bodice.

Her lips were like Diana’s bow,
Her dark eyes would have graced a Juno,

She walked like—I forget her name—
But you know.

And I must fain admit, although
I loathed her, not to put it finely,
She was a clever girl, and sang
Divinely.

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