I called for trumps, and called in vain,
At intervals I dared to mention
How much her conduct caused me pain,
Yet paid she not the least
attention.
I very nearly tore my hair,
I begged of her to play discreetly,
But no—the tricks I planned
with care
Without exception failed completely.
Jewels, I have no doubt, are grand,
But even they are sometimes
cloying.
I found at length her splendid hand
(Of shapely fingers) most
annoying.
When next I’m playing, I confess
I’d like a girl (and
may I get her!)
Who shows her hands a little less,
And plays her cards a little
better.
* * * * *
A LAY OF LONDON.
[Illustration]
Oh, London is a pleasant place to live
the whole year through,
I love it ’neath November’s
pall, or Summer’s rarest blue,
When leafy planes to city courts still
tell the tale of June,
Or when the homely fog brings out the
lamplighter at noon.
I thought to go away this year, and yet
in town I am.
I have not been to Hampstead Heath, much
less to Amsterdam;
And now December’s here again I
do not feel the loss,
Though all the summer I’ve not been
four miles from Charing Cross.
’Twas pleasant in the office when
we’d gather in a bunch,
A social, dreamy sort of day, with lots
of time for lunch.
How commerce flagged September through,
at 90, Pinching Lane,
Till bronzed and bluff the chief returned,
and trade revived again.
Why talk of Andalusia’s bulls, of
Rocky-Mountain bears,
Of Tyrolean alpenstocks—though
not of Alpen shares;
Of seaside haunts where fashion drives
with coronetted panels,
Or briny nooks, when all you need is pipes,
and books, and flannels.
Of orange-groves, and cloister’d
courts, of fountains, and of pines,
Black shadows at whose edge the sun intolerably
shines,
Of tumbled mountain heights, like waves
on some Titanic sea,
Caught by an age of ice at once, and fix’d
eternally.
Of quiet river-villages, which woods and
waters frame,
Lull’d in the lap of loveliness
to the music of their name;
Of fallow-fields, of sheltered farms,
of moorland and of mere:
Let others roam—I stay at home,
and find their beauties here.
Not when the sun on London town incongruously
smiles,
On the news-boys, and the traffic, and
the advertisers’ wiles;
But when the solar orb has ceased to mark
the flight of time,
And three yards off is nothingness—indefinite,
sublime,—
Then in the City’s teeming streets
each soul can get its share,
Its concentrated essence of the high romance
of air,
Whose cloudy symbols KEATS beheld, and
yearn’d to jot them down,
But anybody nowadays can swallow them
in town.
There are, who, fain to dry the tear,
and soothe the choking throat,
Would burn those tokens of the hearth
that fondly o’er us float;
They cannot trace amid the gloom each
dainty spire and whorl,
But smoke, to the true poet’s eye,
is never out of curl.