Kings & Queens & Bowers

The Perfect Face.

    The Graces, on a summer day,
    Grew serious for a moment; yea,
    They thought in rivalry to trace
    The outline of a perfect face.

    Each used a rosebud for a brush,
    And, while it glowed with sunset’s blush,
    Each painted on the evening sky,
    And each a star used for the eye.

    They finished.  Each a curtaining cloud
    Drew back, and each exclaimed aloud: 
    “Behold, we three have drawn the same,
    From the same model!” Ah, her name?

    I know.  I saw the pictures grow. 
    I saw them falter, fade, and go. 
    I know the model.  Oft she lures
    My heart.  The face, my sweet, was yours.

The Moonlight Sonata.

    The notes still float upon the air,
        Just as they did that night. 
    I see the old piano there,—­
        Oh, that again I might!

    Her young voice haunts my eager ear;
        Her hair in the candle-light
    Still seems an aureole,—­a tear
        Is my spectroscope to-night.

    I hear her trembling tell me “No,”
        And I know that she answered right
    But I throw a kiss to the stars, and though
        She be wed she will dream to-night.

The Kiss

    Over the green fields, over the snow,
    Something I send thee, something I throw. 
    No one can guess it; no one can know.

    Light as a feather, quick as the eye;
    Thin as a sunbeam, deep as the sky;
    Worthless, but something a queen could not buy.

    Ah, you have caught it, love!  How do I know? 
    Sweet, there are secrets lost ages ago. 
    Lovers learn all of them.  Smile not,—­’tis so.

The Bride.

    Before her mirror, robed in spotless white,
      She stands and, wondering, looks at her own face,
      Amazed at its new loveliness and grace. 
    Smiling and blushing at the pretty sight,
    So fraught is she with innocent delight,
      She feels the tender thrill of his embrace
      Crushing her lilies into flowery lace;
    Then sighs and starts, even as though from fright.

    Then fleets before her eyes the happy past;
      She turns from it with petulant disdain,
      And tries to read the future,—­but in vain. 
    Blank are its pages from the first to last. 
    She hears faint music, smiles, and leaves the room
    Just as one rosebud more bursts into bloom.

A Problem.

    Give you a problem for your midnight toil,—­
      One you can study till your hair is white
      And never solve and never guess aright,
    Although you burn to dregs your midnight oil? 
    O Sage, I give one that will make you moil. 
      Just take one weakling little woman’s heart. 
      Prepare your patience, furbish up your art. 
    How now?  Did I not see you then recoil?