Now all this happiness, beyond a doubt, They, as æsthetes, are not far wrong, maybe; JUST A LOVE-LETTER. NEW YORK, July 20, 1883. DEAR GIRL: The town goes on as though It thought you still were in it; The gilded cage seems scarce to know That it has lost its linnet. The people come, the people pass; I thought 'twould never come-the Spring- I really don't know how 'twas done Aunt Van, of course, still holds the fort: I've paid the call of duty; She gave me one small glass of port 'Twas '34 and fruity. The furniture was draped in gloom Of linen brown and wrinkled; I smelt in spots about the room I sat upon the sofa where You sat and dropped your thimbleYou know-you said you didn't care; But I was nobly nimble. On hands and knees I dropped, and tried To-well, I tried to miss it: You slipped your hand down by your sideYou knew I meant to kiss it! Aunt Van, I fear we put to shame But, praised be Love, that kiss just came Dear maiden aunt! the kiss, more sweet You never stretched a hand to meet, I sought the Park last Saturday; I found the Drive deserted; The water-trough beside the way I stood where Humboldt guards the gate, Bronze, bumptious, stained, and streakyThere sat a sparrow on his pate, A sparrow chirp and cheeky. Ten months ago! Ten months ago!— Against a lifetime lone and slow, By Love's wild time-piece reckoned- I haunt Purssell's-to his amaze- I ate a bun for your sweet sake, The Norths are at their Newport ranch; My paper trembles in the breeze Among the dusty city trees, And through my half-closed shutters: A northern captive in the town, Its native vigor deadened, I hope that, as it wandered down, Your dear pale cheek it reddened. I'll write no more! A vis-à-vis |