"But now by steam we run our race,
With buttoned heart and pocket,
Our Love's a gilded, surplus grace,—
Just like an empty locket!
"'The time is out of joint.' Who will,
May strive to make it better;
For me, this warm old window-sill,
And this old dusty letter."
II
"Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be,
For Father's gone to Chorley Fair with Sam,
And Mother's storing Apples,—Prue and Me
Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam:
But we shall meet before a Week is gone,—
''Tis a long Lane that has no Turning,' John!
"Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait
Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile—
We can go round and catch them at the Gate,
All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile;
Dear Prue won't look, and Father he'll go on,
And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, John!
"John, she's so smart,—with every Ribbon new,
Flame-colored Sack, and Crimson Padesoy:
As proud as proud; and has the Vapors too,
Just like My Lady;—calls poor Sam a Boy,
And vows no Sweet-heart's worth the Thinking-on
Till he's past Thirty... I know better, John!
"My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much
Before we knew each other, I and you;
And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch,
Gives me enough to think a Summer through.
See, for I send you Something! There, 'tis gone!
Look in this corner,—mind you find it, John!
III
This was the matter of the note,—
A long-forgot deposit,
Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat
Deep in a fragrant closet,
Piled with a dapper Dresden world,—
Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses,—
Bonzes with squat legs undercurled,
And great jars filled with roses.
Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed!
You had no thought or presage
Into what keeping you dismissed
Your simple old-world message!
A reverent one. Though we to-day
Distrust beliefs and powers,
The artless, ageless things you say
Are fresh as May's own flowers....