TO ASTRÆA.
(Who would have me show her my hand.)
Too pretty Palmist, oh, refrain,
Nor thus my Destinies importune
To bare the map of trite and plain
Misfortune.
Methinks, that I, sweet sorceress,
Whose weird persuasions fascinate us,
Can read my stars without express
Afflatus.
"I'm o'er ambitious"—more than true;
To fail, the lot of clever men 'tis.
Who's not a genius in his two-
And-twenties.
(Your two-and-twenties bide above,
While mine—I'm in the sere and yellow—
But I was once the model of
A fellow.)
"My line of head is vague; now quite
Down in the depths, now past the skyline"—
Hard lines! The line that sways a kite
Is my line.
"My line of heart is insecure—"
Let "x" be hearts; to render scarce "x,"
Let "I"-s divide it; eyes are your
Unfair sex.
"My love will ne'er endure:" you wrong
My passion: sooth, it will, if you're it:
Yet stay: to wed?—I couldn't long
Endure it.
"My line of life is slurred and queer."
It always was—a hankey-pankey
Of glories missed—a fine career,
But manqué.
So there, forbear to spell my fate;
I've saved you that sibylline trouble;
You could but this true estimate
Redouble.
Still, if you clasp my hand, and plead,
And, pouting, claim your second-sight, it
May chance that though you may not read,
You'll write it.