We've just come home. And I am sick and saddened
At what the new one will say to this;
And will he think--think that I should have tarried?
"I may add, surely,--with no wish to harm him -
That he's a temper--yes, I fear!
And when he comes to church next Sunday morning,
And sees that written . . . O dear, O dear!
- "Madam, I swear your beauty will disarm him!"
HER LOVE-BIRDS
When I looked up at my love-birds
That Sunday afternoon,
There was in their tiny tune
A dying fetch like broken words,
When I looked up at my love-birds
That Sunday afternoon.
When he, too, scanned the love-birds
On entering there that day,
'Twas as if he had nought to say
Of his long journey citywards,
When he, too, scanned the love-birds,
On entering there that day.
And billed and billed the love-birds,
As 'twere in fond despair
At the stress of silence where
Had once been tones in tenor thirds,
And billed and billed the love-birds
As 'twere in fond despair.
O, his speech that chilled the love-birds,
And smote like death on me,
As I learnt what was to be,
And knew my life was broke in sherds!
O, his speech that chilled the love-birds,
And smote like death on me!
PAYING CALLS
I went by footpath and by stile
Beyond where bustle ends,
Strayed here a mile and there a mile
And called upon some friends.
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