The rich man has his motor-car,
His country and his town estate.
He smokes a fifty-cent cigar
And jeers at Fate.
He frivols through the livelong day,
He knows not Poverty her pinch.
His lot seems light, his heart seems gay,
He has a cinch.
Yet though my lamp burns low and dim,
Though I must slave for livelihood—
Think you that I would change with him?
You bet I would!
To-night
_
Love me to-night! Fold your dear arms around me—
Hurt me—I do but glory in your might!
Tho' your fierce strength absorb, engulf, and drown me,
Love me to-night!
The world's wild stress sounds less than our own heart-beat
Its puny nothingness sinks out of sight.
Just you and I and Love alone are left, sweet—
Love me to-night!
Love me to-night! I care not for to-morrow—
Look in my eyes, aglow with Love's own light:
Full soon enough will come daylight, and sorrow—
Love me to-night!
_
—BEATRICE M. BARRY, in the Banquet Table.
We can't to-night! We're overworked and busy;
We've got a lot of paragraphs to write;
Although your invitation drives us dizzy,
We can't to-night!
But, Trixie, we admit we're greatly smit with
The heart you picture—incandescent, white.
We must confess that you have made a hit with
Us here to-night.
O Beatrice! O Tempora! O Heaven!
List to our lyre the while the strings we smite;
Where shall you be at—well, say half-past seven
To-morrow night?