HER LITTLE FEET.
Her little feet!... Beneath us ranged the sea,
She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded,
One shoe above the other danglingly,
And lo! a Something exquisitely graded,
Brown rings and white, distracting—to the knee!
The band was loud. A wild waltz melody
Flowed rhythmic forth. The nobodies paraded.
And thro' my dream went pulsing fast and free:
Her little feet.
Till she made room for some one. It was He!
A port-wine-flavoured He, a He who traded,
Rich, rosy, round, obese to a degree!
A sense of injury overmastered me.
Quite bulbously his ample boots upbraided
Her little feet.
W. E. Henley.
WHEN YOU ARE OLD.
When you are old, and I am passed away—
Passed, and your face, your golden face, is grey—
I think, whate'er the end, this dream of mine,
Comforting you, a friendly star will shine
Down the dim slope where still you stumble and stray.
So may it be; that so dead Yesterday,
No sad-eyed ghost, but generous and gay,
May serve your memories like almighty wine,
When you are old.
Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the sway
Of death the past's enormous disarray
Lies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign,
Live on well pleased! Immortal and divine,
Love shall still tend you, as God's angels may,
When you are old.