I
What He Said:
This kiss upon your fan I press—
Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it?
And may it from its soft recess—
This kiss upon your fan I press—
Be blown to you, a shy caress,
By this white down, whene'er you use it.
This kiss upon your fan I press—
Ah, Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it!
II
What She Thought:
To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!
The stupid man,
To kiss a fan,
When he knows that—he—can—
Or ought to know it—
To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!
STORY OF THE GATE
[From the same]
Across the pathway, myrtle-fringed,
Under the maple, it was hinged—
The little wooden gate;
'Twas there within the quiet gloam,
When I had strolled with Nelly home,
I used to pause and wait.
Before I said to her good-night
Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite
Within the garden's pale;
And there, the gate between us two,
We'd linger as all lovers do,
And lean upon the rail.