Going to Tobog.
Into my disappointment-cup
The snowflakes fell and blocked the road,
And so I thought I'd finish up
The latest style of Christmas ode;
When she, the charming little lass
With eyes as bright as isinglass,
Before a line my pen had wrought
In strange attire came bounding in,
As if she had with Bruno fought,
And robbed him of his shaggy skin.
She came to me robed cap-à-pie
In her bewitching "blanket-suit,"
In moccasin and toggery,
All ready for "that icy chute,"
And asked me if I thought she'd do;
I shake with love of mischief true:
"For what?—a polar bear?—why, yes!"
"No, no!" she said, with half a pout.
"Why, one would think so, by your dress—
Say, does your mother know you're out?"
"No, I'm not out," she said, and sighed;
"Because the storm so wildly raged—
But for the first delightful ride
For half a year I've been engaged."
"Engaged to what?—an Esquimau?
To ride a glacier, or a floe?"
"Why, don't you know"—her color glowed,
In expectation all agog—
"The reason why I'm glad it snowed?
Because—I'm going to tobog."
"Passer Le Temps."
So that's the way you pass your time!
Indeed your charming, frank confession
Betrays no sort of heinous crime,
But marks a wonderful digression
From puritanic views, less bold,
That we were early taught to hold.
"Passer le temps," of course, implies
A little cycle of flirtations,
Wherein the actors never rise
To sober, serious relations,
But play just for amusement's sake
A harmless game of "give and take."
While moments pass on pinions fleet,
And youth in beauty effloresces,
The joy that finds itself complete
In honeyed words and soft caresses,
Alas! an index seems to be
Of perilous inconstancy.