And if all silver were her hair,
Or faded were her face,
She would not look to me less fair,
Nor lack a single grace.
And if I were a little child,
With childhood's timid trust,
I think my heart would fly to her,
And love--because it must!
And if I were an earnest man,
With empty heart and life,
I think--(but I might change my mind) -
She'd be my chosen wife!
Isn't that pretty? Oh, Elsie! I hope I shall grow old as
beautifully as mamma does, so that people can write poetry to me if
they feel like it! Here is Jack's, for Polly's birthday; he says he
got the idea from a real poem which is just as silly as his:-
A pollywog from a wayside brook
Is a goodly gift for thee;
But a milk-white steed, or a venison sheep,
Will do very well for me.
For you a quivering asphodel
(Two ducks and a good fat hen),
For me a withering hollyhock
(For seven and three are ten!).
Rose-red locks and a pug for thee
(The falling dew is chill),
A dove, a rope, and a rose for me
(Oh, passionate, pale-blue pill!).
For you a greenery, yallery gown
(Hath one tomb room for four?),
Dig me a narrow gravelet here
(Oh, red is the stain of gore!!).
I told Jack I thought it extremely unhitched, but he says that's the
chief beauty of the imitation.
I give you also some verses intended for Polly's birthday, which we
shall celebrate, when the day arrives, by a grand dinner.
You remember how we tease her about her love for tea, which she
cannot conceal, but which she is ashamed of all the same.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115