Your name I never learned—Hélène,
Beryl, perhaps Marie,
Phyllis, Estelle, or merely Jane—
It makes no odds to me.
I hymn you, maiden, none the less;
I toil in rhyme and metre; yes,
From noon till eve I bear the pain
Of this prolonged poetic stress
(With half-an-hour for tea).
Carrots your hair was (i.e., red;
"Carrots" is just my fun);
Blue were your eyes, and from them sped
A gleam that mocked the sun—
I think that's so, but, as I say,
Time has moved quickly since that day,
And few, too few, the words we said
When languidly, as beauty may,
You handed me a bun.
Calmly you took it from the place
Where it was used to sit,
And I can still recall the grace
With which you dusted it.
I paid you, and we parted; so
Life's rich adventures come and go!
And did that brief glimpse of your face
Set love within me surging? No,
It didn't. Not a bit.
I only sing because I must;
Not mine the fret, the throb
Of fevered passion; verse is just
My livelihood, or job.
Searching for themes, I had a clear,
Swift vision of your dial; queer
How such things happen, but I trust
These lines will bring me in, my dear,
£1 or 30s.
AT THE COSTUMIER'S.
Oh yes, she's smart, but she hasn't an idea in her vocabulary."