  I’M sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even you would admire— It cost a cool thousand in France; I’m be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a queue: In short, sir, “the belle of the season” Is wasting an hour on you. A dozen engagements I’ve broken; I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits—on the stairs—for me yet. They say he’ll be rich—when he grows up— And then he adores me indeed. And you, sir, are turning your nose up, Three thousand miles off, as you read. “And how do I like my position?” “And what do I think of New York?” “And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?” “And isn’t it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?” “And isn’t it a change to the ditches Well, yes—if you saw us out driving Each day in the Park, four-in-hand— If you saw poor dear mania contriving To look supernaturally grand— If you saw papa’s picture, as taken By Brady, and tinted at that— You’d never suspect he sold bacon And flour at Poverty Flat. And yet, just this moment when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier— In the bustle and glitter befitting The “finest soirÉe of the year”— In the mists of a gaze de ChambÉry, And the hum of the smallest of talk— Somehow, Joe, I thought of the “Ferry,” And the dance that we had on “The Fork”; Of Harrison’s barn, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall; Of the candles that shed their soft lustre And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle; Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis, And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee; Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping Of that ride—that to me was the rarest; Of—the something you said at the gate. Ah, Joe, then I wasn’t an heiress To “the best-paying lead in the State!” Well, well, it’s all past; yet it’s funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money, That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee’s daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat. But goodness! what nonsense I’m writing! (Mama says my taste still is low), Instead of my triumphs reciting, I’m spooning on Joseph—heigh-ho! And I’m to be “finished” by travel— Whatever’s the meaning of that— Oh! why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat? Good-night—here’s the end of my paper; Good-night—if the longitude please— For maybe, while wasting my taper, Your sun’s climbing over the trees. But know, if you haven’t got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart’s somewhere there in the ditches, And you’ve struck it—on Poverty Flat. Francis Bret Harte. |
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