DAMON OUT OF DATE.
Here is the lovely summer going by,
And we know nought about it, you and I,
Being so far away
One from the other; yet to outward eye
We both are summer gay.
And people talk; although no pulses stir
However much I laugh and dance with her,
My temporary fate;
And you, perhaps as carelessly, prefer
That one your will to wait,
Who, the dance over, from his strict embrace
Gallantly frees you, mops his sun-tanned face,
And asks in accents low
Whether you'd like an ice, or what, in case
You breathe a doubtful "No."
Oh, the striped awning and the fairy lamp,
The cool night fragrance, the insidious damp,
And, more insidious still,
The sweet effrontery of the beardless scamp
Who babbles at his will.
Here, by the sea, which in the darkness sings,
On the free breeze I give my fancy wings,
And in a sudden shrine
Your image throned appears, while the wind swings
Its sea-incense divine.
Breathless I worship in the waiting night
The sparkling eyes, that sometimes seem all light,
The cheek so purely pale,
The sacred breast, than whitest dress more white,
Where whitest thought must fail.
Thin arms, with dimpled shadows here and there,
The curl'd luxuriance of your soft, dark hair
Its own bewitching wreath,
And perfect mouth that shows, in smiles too rare,
The radiant little teeth.
You cannot live on dances and delights,
Or fêtes by day and dance-music by nights.
Time foots it fleeter far
Than all the surging crowd your beauty smites
Like some coruscant star.
The ruthless social dragon will not spare
Your sweet girl nature, withering in the glare,
Or peeping out by stealth.
Wealth's prize is beauty, and to make all fair,
Beauty's desire is wealth.
I cannot keep a carriage for you, dear;
No horses on three hundred pounds a year
My lacking stables grace.
Yet the swift Hansom to the whistle clear
Will always speed apace.
I cannot give you wines of vintage rare,
There is no room for them beneath the stair
Which is my cellar's space.
Yet with Duke Humphrey we could often fare
With more than ducal grace.
Ah, loves, like books, are fated from the first,
One gets no cup of water for the thirst
The whole stream would not slake;
Another dims with tears the springs that burst
To sunshine for his sake.
When this vain fervour sadly sobers down,
I'll love you still, white maid, with eyes so brown
And voice so passing sweet,
And haply with Apollo's laurel crown
My love's foredoomed defeat.