Lips murmur. Lashes flutter in alarm.
“No, Bobbie. No.” My foolish boy, be bolder;
The moment’s fear is half the moment’s charm....
Alas! His missed and amateurish peck
Grazes the ear-lobe; lands upon the neck.
Readers, both kissed and kissless, chide not; pity
These withered fruits from Jill’s dead seas of dreaming.
Think—or in France, or in this barraged city,
How many a dear one owes his brass hat’s gleaming,
How many a husband thanks his safe Committee,