Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging
Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn;
Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing,—
Blythe as a bird, new risen from the corn.
LAURENCE.
Best is the song with music interwoven;
Mine’s a musician, musical at heart,
Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven—
Sways to the right coquetting of Mozart.
FRANK.
Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad,
Queen at a picnic, leader of the glees;
Not too divine to toss you up a salad,
Great in “Sir Roger” danced among the trees.
LAURENCE.
Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping torches,
Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm,
Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches,
Light as a snowflake, settles on your arm.
FRANK.
Better the twilight and the cheery chatting,—
Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat,
Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting,
Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet.