Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,
The touches of her hands, and the delight—
The touches of her hands!
The touches of her hands are like the dew
That falls so softly down no one e'er knew
The touch thereof save lovers like to one
Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.
O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,
As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;
Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs;
Or—in between the midnight and the dawn,
When long unrest and tears and fears are gone—
Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.
FARMER WHIPPLE—BACHELOR
It's a mystery to see me—a man o' fifty-four,
Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year and more—
A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can say
That you can guess the reason why I feel so good
to-day!
I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviate
A little in beginning, so's to set the matter straight
As to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife—
Kind o' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life!
I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five—
Three brothers and a sister—I'm the only one alive,—
Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways,
You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise.