"A Merry Christmas!" Through the winter chill,
The singing spring—hot summer and drear fall,
You go your way, seeking for good, not ill,
Remembering life's joy and not its gall;
Clasping the hand that trembles, when you may,
Spending your love whole-heartedly the while
For those who need it now, nor wait that day
When they no longer care for word or smile.
Doing your part with all sincerity—
A Vision of the Man that I would be!
THE REASON
The fetching airs you have; the way you sing, dear;
The pretty uplift of your round, firm chin;
Into my heart the sunshine daily bring, dear;
To be downcast when you're here were a sin!
Yet ev'ry motion, ev'ry smile and word, dear,
I know full well—and lost are their effect.
All of your bell-like tones you see, I've heard, dear,
When they were meant for me—and came direct.
That golden hair! How well you know its worth, dear,
To draw enraptured praise from lovers bold!
I, too, know well that from its very birth, dear,
Its meshes have entrapped the young and old.
Yet, when I watch you laughing, teasing—you, dear,
Who have been given such a hold on hearts,
I do not thrill as all the others do, dear;
Lost on me (in a manner) are your arts!
Not that I'm jealous, indifferent, or cold, dear;
Not that I don't approve of all your charms;
Not that you're "just a little bit too old," dear;
Nor that you are a tiny babe in arms!
No, no; you're sweet, and fresh, and fair, dear,
Unspoiled, delightful—really "all the rage."
But somehow I can't seem to rightly care, dear—
I wooed your mother—when she was your age!
THE MODERN WAY
Of tender missives—decorated treasures—
Of violets and roses, passing sweet;
Of throbbing heart-songs, tuned to lilting measures;
Of fervent verse—with somewhat halting feet;
Of every dainty Valentine that's fashioned
You've had a rather goodly share each year;
So will you take, in place of love-impassioned
Epistles, something quieter, my dear?
Three words I'll send—that is, if they're enough
To take the place of all that flossy stuff!
Throughout the year life is so full of trouble,
Saint Valentine, alas! is shoved aside;
Beneath grim work the lover's back must double,
And then he lets poor sentiment go slide!
We try to think of what you'd have us say, dear,
But when we've coaxed a good thought half way out,
A money-making idea's in the way, dear,
And then Love's gentle troops are put to rout.
So—with a business missive in each hand—
Will three words do? Or do you more demand?
Gone are the days when troubadors sang daily
Of hearts and flowers, lips and eyes and hair;
We take (I fear) our deep emotions gaily,
And think we haven't time to love or care.
Yet once a year it shouldn't be impossible
To Valentine a little, that is true;
Then gloss the faults of mine you think are glossible,
And I will troubador a bit for you;
So, by the stars that shine above you,
Hark to my valentine, my dear, I love you!