A TEN MINUTES' IDYL.
Life is a farce, a dreary round,
A fraud—of that there's not a doubt,
Although I've only lately found
It out.
Bad boldly masquerades as good,
Fruit turns to ashes in the taking,
Unpleasant very is the rude
Awaking.
'Tis Spring, when something, so one learns,
Seems to affect the burnished dove,
And when a young man's fancy turns
To love.
With window open to the breeze,
The tramp of passers-by unheeding,
I sit reclining at mine ease,
A-reading.
I've read enough—and not amiss
I rather fancy now would be
A little rest—ah! what is this
I see?
A sight that's almost past belief,
And makes me think I must be raving,
For there a girl a handkerchief
Is waving!
Like to a light that in the black
And inky night shines o'er the main,
It disappears, and then comes back
Again.
I know the house quite well—I've heard
Her father's something in the City,
And she's a blue-eyed girl absurd-
-ly pretty.
By Jove! she does it with a whirr,
It's clear this inexpressive she
Is given to the fortiter
In re.
Of course it's forward—and indeed
It's worse—it's shockingly imprudent
Thus to encourage me, a need-
-y student.
Her form is shadowy—I must
Get out my glasses, so to bring
Her nearer. Yes—the range is just
The thing!
Life is a farce, without a doubt!
The cause of all this fuss and fluster
Is just a housemaid shaking out
Her duster!