  A BAGATELLE! Ah, Mistress Prue, So gaily laughing all life through, You call it that, the flower you fling Lightly aside, the song you sing, The fan, the glove no longer new. But to your careless eyes of blue A bow, a heart that’s fond and true, Is, like your glove, that worthless thing— A bagatelle. While I who prize your glove, your shoe, The rose that o’er your lips you drew, Hold worthless spring’s fresh blossoming, Hold worthless life’s whole offering, Because my love is but to you A bagatelle. James G. Burnett. |
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