BEAU RIVAGE HOTEL
SATURDAY EVENING
Below there’s a brumming and strumming
And twiddling and fiddling amain,
And sweeping of muslins and laughter,
And pattering of luminous rain.
Fair England, resplendent Columbia,
Gaul, Teuton,—how precious a smother!
But the happiest is brisk little Polly
To galop with only her brother.
And up to the fourth étage landing,
Come the violins’ passionate cries,
Where the pale femme-de-chambre is sitting
With sleep in her beautiful eyes.
IN A JUNE NIGHT
(A Study in the manner of Robert Browning)
I
See, the door opens of this alcove,
Here we are now in the cool night air
Out of the heat and smother; above
The stars are a wonder, alive and fair,
It is a perfect night,—your hand,—
Down these steps and we reach the garden,
An odorous, dim, enchanted land,
With the dusk stone-god for only warden.
II
Was I not right to bring you here?
We might have seen slip the hours within
Till God’s new day in the East were clear,
And His silence abashed the dancers’ din,
Then each have gone away, the pain
And longing greatened, not satisfied,
By a hand’s slight touch or a glance’s gain,—
And now we are standing side by side!