  AT last! O, sensation delicious! At last, it is here, it is here! That moment supremely auspicious In the jolliest ball of the year. It is all as I dreamt it would happen— The rooms grown oppressive with heat, And my darling, alarm’d with the crowding, “Not there; not among the exotics; I faint with that fragrance of theirs. Let us go—it will be so refreshing— And find out a seat on the stairs.” How dear are the lips that could utter Such exquisite music as this! How I listen’d, my heart all a-flutter, Assenting, transported with bliss! All the house with the dancers is throbbing, The music seems born of the air: O, joy of all joy the extremest, To sit, as I sit, on a stair! To sit, and to gaze on my darling, Enraptured in thrilling delight, As I think, “Never face could be fairer, Nor eyes half so tenderly bright.” It is all as I knew it would happen, Yet, no; there is something I miss— The eloquent words I intended To speak in a moment like this. They were tender, and soft, and poetic, And I thought, “As I timidly speak, She will smile, and a blush sympathetic And now that we sit here together, I only—do all that I can— Converse on the ball and the weather, While she opens and closes her fan. What I thought to have said seems audacious, Her ear it would surely offend; She would turn from me, no longer gracious, And frown my delight to an end. Far better to talk of the weather, Or ponder in rapture supreme: ’Tis so joyous to sit here together, So pleasant to wake and to dream! Contented, long hours we could measure, Forgetting, forgotten by all; Nor envy the dancers their pleasure For ours is the best of the ball. William Sawyer. |
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