THE PASSIONATE PROFESSOR
“But bending low, I whisper only this:
‘Love, it is night.’”
—Harry Thurston Peck.
Love, it is night. The orb of day
Has gone to hit the cosmic hay.
Nocturnal voices now we hear.
Come, heart’s delight, the hour is near
When Passion’s mandate we obey.
I would not, sweet, the fact convey
In any crude and obvious way:
I merely whisper in your ear—
“Love, it is night!”
Candor compels me, pet, to say
That years my fading charms betray.
Tho’ Love be blind, I grant it’s clear
I’m no Apollo Belvedere.
But after dark all cats are gray.
Love, it is night!
A BALLADE OF WOOL-GATHERING
Now is my season of unrest,
Now calls the forest, day and night;
And by its pleasant spell obsessed,
My wits go soaring like a kite.
Forgive me if I be not bright,
And pardon if I seem distrait;
Wood-fancies put my wits to flight;—
The woods are but a week away.
Palleth upon my soul the jest,
Falleth upon my pen a blight.
The daily task has lost its zest,
And everything is flat and trite.
There’s nothing humorous in sight;
Don’t mind if I am dull to-day.
For every column is a fight
When woods are but a week away.