Classic Poem

How wise he is! He can talk in Greek!
There is n't a language he cannot speak.
The very measure the Psalmist sung
He carries at will on the tip of his tongue.
When he argues in English, why, every word
Is almost the biggest that ever you heard!
That is, when he talks with Papa it 's so—
With me it 's another affair, you know.

Little one-syllable words, you see,
Are all he is willing to waste upon me;
So he calls me his rose, his bird, his pet,
And says it quite often, lest I should forget;
While his wonderful verbs grow meagre and small;
You 'd think he had ne'er opened Webster at all.
It 's only: “Ah, do you?” or “Will you, my dove?”
Or else it 's: “I love,” “I love,” and “I love.”

And when we walk out in the starry night,
Though he knows the Zodiac's rounded height,
With its Gemini, Scorpio, Leo, and all,
Its nebulæ, planets, and satellites small,
And though, in a flash, he could turn his proud eye on
The Dipper, and Crown, and the Belt of Orion;—
Not once does he mention the wonders above,
But just whispers softly: “My own!” and “I love!”

Whenever they tease me—the girls and boys—
With: “Mrs. Professor,” or “classical joys;”
Or ask if his passion he deigns to speak
In Hebrew, or Sanscrit or simple Greek;—
I try to summon a look of steel,
And hide the joy that I really feel.
For they 'd laugh still more if they knew the truth
How meek a professor can be, forsooth!

Though well I know, in the days to come
Great thoughts shall preside in our happy home;
And to hold forever his loving looks
I must bend my head over musty books,
And be as learned as ever I can
To do full justice to such a man,—
The future is bright, for, like song of birds,
My soul is filled with his little words.