Sagittulae, Random Verses eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 105 pages of information about Sagittulae, Random Verses.

  She sings—­sweeter far than a cymbal
    (A sound which I never have heard);
  She plays—­and her fingers most nimble
    Make music more soft than a bird. 
  She speaks—­’tis like melody stealing
    O’er the Mediterranean sea;
  She smiles—­I am instantly kneeling
    On each gouty and corpulent knee.

  ’Tis night! the pale moon shines in heaven
    (Where else it should shine I don’t know),
  And like fire-flies the Pleiades seven
    Are winking at mortals below: 
  Let them wink, if they like it, for ever,
    My heart they will ne’er lead astray;
  Nor the soft silken memories sever,
    Which bind me to Alice De Grey.

  If I roam thro’ the dim Coliseum,
    Her fairy form follows me there;
  If I list to the solemn “Te Deum,”
    Her voice seems to join in the prayer. 
  “Sweet spirit” I seem to remember,
    O would she were near me to hum it;
  As I heard her in sunny September,
    On the Rigi’s aerial summit!

  O Alice where art thou?  No answer
    Comes to cheer my disconsolate heart;
  Perhaps she has married a lancer,
    Or a bishop, or baronet smart;
  Perhaps, as the Belle of the ball-room,
    She is dancing, nor thinking of me;
  Or riding in front of a small groom;
    Or tossed in a tempest at sea;

  Or listening to sweet Donizetti,
    In Venice, or Rome, or La Scala;
  Or walking alone on a jetty;
    Or buttering bread in a parlour;
  Perhaps, at our next merry meeting,
    She will find me dull, married, and gray;
  So I’ll send her this juvenile greeting
    On the Eve of St. Valentine’s day.


  Where are they all departed,
    The loved ones of my youth,
  Those emblems white of purity,
    Sweet innocence and truth? 
  When day-light drives the darkness,
    When evening melts to night,
  When noon-day suns burn brightest,
    They come not to my sight.

  I miss their pure embraces
    Around my neck and throat,
  The thousand winning graces
    Whereon I used to dote. 
  I know I may find markets
    Where love is bought and sold,
  But no such love can equal
    The tender ties of old.

  My gentle washer-woman,
    I know that you are true;
  The least shade of suspicion
    Can never fall on you. 
  Then fear me not, as fiercely
    I fix on thee stern eyes,
  And ask in terms emphatic,
    “Where are my lost white ties?”

  Each year I buy a dozen,
    Yet scarce a year is gone,
  Ere, looking in my ward-robe,
    I find that I have none. 
  I don’t believe in magic,
    I know that you are true,
  Yet say, my washer-woman,
    What can those white ties do?

  Does each with her own collar
    To regions far elope,
  Regions by starch untainted,
    And innocent of soap? 
  I know not; but in future
    I’ll buy no more white ties,
  But wear the stiff ‘all-rounder’
    Of Ritualistic guise.

Project Gutenberg
Sagittulae, Random Verses from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
Follow Us on Facebook