  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 in my casement, for Pappy Is summon’d to dinner at Kew: I’m alone, dearest 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’m drest in your favourite colour— Dear Fred, how I wish you were here! I am wearing my lazuli necklace, The necklace you fasten’d askew! Was there ever so rude and 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. They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning A Poet whose garland endures; It was you who first spouted me Browning,— 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, Dear Fred, I believe it, I do! Small marvel that Fashion is making Her idol of you! Alas for the world, and its dearly Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss; Sometimes I half wish I was 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 ’tis a pleasure, My darling, 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: Lay it by in a dainty deposit For relics—we all have a few! Love, some day they’ll print it, because it Was written to you! Frederick Locker-Lampson. |
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