The day's play

by A. A. Milne

REVERIE

Dear Amaryllis,—(may I call you that?
Seeing I do not know your proper name;
And if I did, it might be something dull—
Like Madge). I offer you my broken heart,
Knowing that if you do not want the thing
You will not hesitate to mention it:
Dear Amaryllis, will you please be mine?

We met, 'twas at a dance, ten days ago;
And after sundry smiles and bows from me,
And other rather weary smiles from you,
And certain necessary calculations,
We hit at last upon the second extra,
And made an assignation for the same.
"I shall be at this corner here," you said:
And I "Right O" or words to that effect.
But when the dance came round we both were tired,
So sat it out instead beneath a palm
(Which probably was just as well for you,
And since I love you, just as well for me).
We talked, but what about I can't remember—
Save this: that you were rather keen on golf;
That I had never been to Scarborough;
And both of us thought well of Bernard Shaw.

We talked; but all the time I looked at you,
And wondered much what inspiration led
Your nose to tilt at just that perfect angle;
And wondered how on earth you did your hair;
And why your eyes were blue, when it was black;
And why—a hundred other different things.
Until at last, another dance beginning,
You left me lonely; whereupon I went
Back to the supper-room, and filled a glass
And drank, and lit a cigarette, and sighed,
And asked the waiter had he been in love,
And told the waiter, Yes, I am in love,
And gave him twopence, and went home to bed.

Am I in love? Well, no, I hardly think so.
For one, I'm much too happy as I am;
For two, I shall forget you by to-morrow;
For three, I do not care about your friends,
The men you danced with—bounders, all of them;
For four and five and six and all the rest,
I'm fairly sure we shall not meet again.
Not that I mind. No, as I said before,
I'm very much too happy as I am.
Besides, I shall forget you by to-morrow.

Then why this letter? Well, two incidents
Have led me to it. Here you have them both.
First, then, that sitting in my rooms last week,
Sitting and smoking, thinking—not of you,
Not altogether, but of many things,
Politics, football, dinner and tobacco—
Quite suddenly, this thought occurred to me:
"By Jove, I wish I had a little dog,
A terrier, an Irish terrier,
I wonder if the landlord would object."
And thinking thus, I rose and sighed, and bent
To take my boots off. Had a mouse appeared
I could have loved it in my loneliness.
Had but the humblest cockroach shown his head,
I think I would have said "Good-night" to it.

This too (I give it you for what it's worth):
Next morning, passing through St James's Park,
A morning for the gods, all blue and white,
I heard what, strictly, should have been a skylark,
(But, probably, was quite a common bird)
Offering up its very soul to heaven.
Then suddenly I stopped and cried, "Oh, Lord!
Oh, Lord!" I cried, "I wish it were the spring."

* * * * * * *

So there you have it. Now it's off my chest.
Just for one moment you upset me slightly,
Disturbed my usual calm serenity,
Got in my head, and set me vainly wishing
For April, and the country, and one other...
But that is over. I am whole again.
Good-bye! I shall not send this letter now.
I find I have forgotten you already.