_)
Maud, when you turned me down (a year to-morrow),
Bidding me rise from off my suppliant knee,
And, while regretful if you caused me sorrow,
Murmured, "Sebastian, it can never be,"
I did not lay aside my fond ambition;
I told myself, in spite of what occurred,
"This is her lunch or three o'clock edition,
And not her final word."
I merely marvelled at your eccentricity,
Feeling convinced amid my blank amaze
That, though you might "absent you from felicity
Awhile," 'twas but a temporary phase;
Convinced the mood impelling you to stifle
The aspirations that I'd dared outline
Was simply due to some extraneous trifle,
Not any flaw of mine.
A chill or toothache might have vexed you greatly;
Perhaps you had a corn inclined to shoot,
Or possibly the sugar shortage lately
Had proved itself abnormally acute;
In short, I felt that, though unkindly treated,
A happier time to me would surely come,
When my request (impassioned) would be greeted
With no down-pointing thumb.
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