Summer and beauty over the lands--
Careless hours of pleasure;
A meeting of eyes and a touching of hands--
A change in the floating measure.
A deeper hue in the skies of blue,
Winds from the tropics blowing;
A softer grace on the fair moon's face,
And the summer going, going.
The leaves drift down, the green grows brown,
And tears with smiles are blended;
A twilight hour and a treasured flower,--
And now the poem is ended.
[LINES.]
Written by Request of the Proprietors of Windsor Cheese Factory.
Alas! my muse is getting fast;
She uses slang, 'tis very clear.
Last eve, as she was flying past,
She whispered "Cheese it!" in my ear.
I chided her with words like these:
"You slangy jade, avaunt! go by!"
Again she said: "You'd better cheese--
The fact-ory you can't deny."
I struck her with my pen and cried,
"Away! you fill my breast with woe
And bitter shame." She only sighed,
"Oh, whey-er, whey-er shall I go?"
"You talk more like a pilot man"
Said I, "than like a poet's muse."
Said she, "I'll seek the vat-I-can,
But I will fly from such abuse:"
Quoth I, "What's turned your silly head?
I was but jesting, anyway."
"My blood is curdling now," she said.
"But if you press it, I will stay."