Playing at cards for money, I'm clear,
Is an alien thing in beautiful lives'—
He grumbled, 'The fellows will think me queer;
But then the poor fellows have not got wives.'
We talk'd the matter delightfully out;
Our words were earnest and bright and free;
We twisted it round, we turn'd it about,
And we both agreed that it should not be.
'You are my angel,' he cried, with a kiss;
'I fear lest your wings are spreading to fly,'