  The glow and the glory are plighted To darkness, for evening is come; The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted; The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy Is summoned to dinner at Kew: I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy,— I'm thinking of you. I wish you were here. Were I duller Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear; I am dressed in your favorite color,— Dear Fred, how I wish you were here! I am wearing my lazuli necklace, The necklace you fastened askew! Was there ever so rude or so reckless A darling as you? I want you to come and pass sentence On two or three books with a plot; Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"? I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, The story of Edgar and Lucy, How thrilling, romantic, and true; The master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you. To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning The beacon; its magic still lures, That stupid old Browning of yours. His vogue and his verve are alarming, I'm anxious to give him his due; But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming A poet as you. I heard how you shot at The Beeches, I saw how you rode Chanticleer, I have read the report of your speeches, And echoed the echoing cheer. There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,— I envy their owners, I do! Small marvel that Fortune is making Her idol of you. Alas for the world, and its dearly Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss! Sometimes I half wish I were merely A plain or a penniless miss; But perhaps one is best with a measure Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too, That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, My dearest, to you. Your whim is for frolic and fashion, Your taste is for letters and art; This rhyme is the commonplace passion That glows in a fond woman's heart. For relics,—we all have a few!— Love, some day they'll print it, because it Was written to you. Frederick Locker. |
|
