Here is the story—
I haven’t half told it;
The fun and the glory,
A volume can’t hold it.
But this is a spray,
Withered leaves and pressed flowers,
From a faded bouquet
That was plucked in gay hours,
Within sound of the waves
Of the gentle Pacific,
Where Nature enslaves
And the days beatific
Are sandalled with gold
And wear gems on their fingers.
All the tale is not told
Which slow Fancy weaves,
But a faint odor lingers
About these dry leaves
That may bring recollection
Of prairie and loch
With a hint of affection
From
Yours ever,
Droch.
Dedication of The Monterey Wedding.
TO MY MOTHER
Long years you’ve kept the door ajar
To greet me, coming from afar;
Long years in my accustomed place
I’ve read my welcome in your face,
And felt the sunlight of your love
Drive back the years and gently move
The telltale shadow ’round to youth.
You’ve found the very spring, in truth,
That baffles time—the kindling joy
That keeps me in your heart a boy.
And now I send an unknown guest
To bide with you and snugly rest
Beside the old home’s ingle-nook.—
For love of me you’ll love my book.
Dedication of Overheard in Arcady.
A BOOK’S SOLILOQUY
My lady’s room is full of books
And easy-chairs and curtained nooks,
And dainty tea-things on a table,
And poetry, and tale, and fable,
And on the hearth a crackling fire
That welcome gives, and when you tire
Of pleasant talk you still may find
A tempting pasture where the mind
May browse awhile, and read the pages
Which poets wrote, or fools, or sages.
And here I come to ask a place
Among these worthies, face to face!
To be allowed on some low shelf
To rest and dream, and pride myself
On being in such company—
To watch fair women drinking tea;
And if, perchance, on some lone day,
The gentle mistress looks my way
And softly says, “Now I shall see
What’s going on in Arcady!”
Then I’ll rejoice that I’m a book
At which my lady deigns to look.