They lie there, staring, staring so
With great, glazed eyes to taunt me.
Will no one bury them down low,
Where they shall cease to haunt me?
He kissed her lips, not mine; the flowers
And vines hung all about them.
Sometimes I sit and laugh for hours
To think just how I found them.
And then I sometimes stand and shriek
In agony of terror:
I see the red warm in her cheek,
Then laugh loud at my error.
My cheek was all too pale, he thought;
He deemed hers far the brightest.
Ha! but my dagger touched a spot
That made her face the whitest!
But oh! the days seem very long,
Without my Earl, my lover;
And something in my head seems wrong
The more I think it over.
Ah! look—she is not dead—look there!
She’s standing close beside me!
Her eyes are open—how they stare!
Oh, hide me! hide me! hide me!
WHAT IS FLIRTATION?
What is flirtation? Really,
How can I tell you that?
But when she smiles I see its wiles,
And when he lifts his hat.
’Tis walking in the moonlight,
’Tis buttoning on a glove,
’Tis lips that speak of plays next week,
While eyes are talking love.
’Tis meeting in the ball-room,
’Tis whirling in the dance;
’Tis something hid beneath the lid
More than a simple glance.
’Tis lingering in the hallway,
’Tis sitting on the stair,
’Tis bearded lips on finger-tips,
If mamma isn’t there.
’Tis tucking in the carriage,
’Tis asking for a call;
’Tis long good-nights in tender lights,
And that is—no, not all!
’Tis parting when it’s over,
And one goes home to sleep;
Best joys must end, tra la, my friend,
But one goes home to weep!