A DEAD FROST.
When I saw you on "a January morning,"
With a very little pair of skates indeed,
And the frosty glow your fairy face adorning,
I was suddenly from other passions freed.
And the year at its imperial beginning
Showed the woman who alone was worth the winning;
Though the growing flame awhile I tried to smother
Like a brother;
And that's a very common phase indeed,
As we read.
My hat and stick I suddenly found fleeting,
And they whistled o'er the surface, smooth and black,
And the ice, with an unwonted warmth of greeting,
Slapt me suddenly and hard upon the back.
I didn't mind your laughing, if the laughter
Had left no sting of scorn to rankle after.
Though I'd joyously have flung myself before you
To adore you,
Still to sit with all one's might upon the ice
Isn't nice.
When I met you in the lordly local ball-room,
Where you queen'd it, the suburban world's desire,
Though your programme for my name had left but small room,
I somehow snatched five valses from the fire.
And I did stout supper-service for your mother,
While you wove the self-same spells o'er many another,
And I said, no doubt, the sort of things that they did,
In the shaded
Little nook beneath the palms upon the stair,
To my fair.
But I noticed, as I learned to know you better,
And you ceased to wile the victim at your feet,
There was very little silk about the fetter,
And 'twere flattery to say your sway was sweet:
Nay, you made the light and airy shrine of beauty
A centre for the most exacting duty,
And the fealty of the family undoubting
Met with flouting,
As a tribute which was nothing but your due,
As they knew.
Your Papa is getting elderly and bulky,
And he loves you as the apple of his eye,
Yet very little things will make you sulky,
And to meet his little ways you never try.
And I see him look a trifle hurt and puzzled,
And his love for you is often check'd and muzzled;
Yet I think, upon the whole, that I would rather
Be your father,
Than the lover you could torture at your ease,
If you please.