Lady Myrtle Danced a Waltz
My heels are playing on the pavement,
My wits rebel and play me false,
For fancy o'er an old enslavement
Plays, while the soldiers play a waltz.
And so I cannot but remember—
The music puts me in its debt—
A ball-night in a white December,
A tennis-lawn with May-dew wet.
'Tis strange that after many seasons
We like to see the old dim stars,
And spite of half a hundred reasons,
Gaze from behind the old cell-bars.
My heart's a graveyard; often weeping
My hopes and thoughts sit there in black,
For there my dearest loves are sleeping,
All dead in early youth, good lack!
Love ratifies no vain averment
Or I would show you, face to face,
Recalled once more from long interment,
A resurrection full of grace;
That you from phantom feet the lightest,
From fairy forms might choose the best,
From brilliant dames select the brightest—
And yield what no one will contest.
You could not then conceive it curious
A soldiers' band should make me dull—
You think my sentiment is spurious?—
My friend, you're weighted with a skull.
Hope waits on consciences that suffer,
Hearts soften that are hard as stick,
The thinly skinned may yet grow tougher,
But nothing saves a head that's thick.
I'll call on someone else to measure
The merits of my dreamland bride,
Or at my own abundant leisure
Discuss the maiden and decide.
They called her clever, sweet, and pious,
I saw it shining in her eyes;
But evermore the gods deny us
The wives we think we most could prize.
I heard her sing a glorious ballad,
They told me that she studied hard,
I helped her to the chicken salad
With feelings of profound regard.
And never spoke to her thereafter,
But heard of her at distant whiles,
For where she came came merry laughter,
And where she was were pleasant smiles.
I call them flowers, the passion fancies
That cumber one with needless cares,
The social roses, fashion pansies—
Who likes may call them weeds or tares.
Love's acre is extremely fertile
In immortelles that last for hours,
But here's a sprig of real Myrtle
To grace my bunch of passion flowers.
My wits rebel and play me false,
For fancy o'er an old enslavement
Plays, while the soldiers play a waltz.
And so I cannot but remember—
The music puts me in its debt—
A ball-night in a white December,
A tennis-lawn with May-dew wet.
'Tis strange that after many seasons
We like to see the old dim stars,
And spite of half a hundred reasons,
Gaze from behind the old cell-bars.
My heart's a graveyard; often weeping
My hopes and thoughts sit there in black,
For there my dearest loves are sleeping,
All dead in early youth, good lack!
Love ratifies no vain averment
Or I would show you, face to face,
Recalled once more from long interment,
A resurrection full of grace;
That you from phantom feet the lightest,
From fairy forms might choose the best,
From brilliant dames select the brightest—
And yield what no one will contest.
You could not then conceive it curious
A soldiers' band should make me dull—
You think my sentiment is spurious?—
My friend, you're weighted with a skull.
Hope waits on consciences that suffer,
Hearts soften that are hard as stick,
The thinly skinned may yet grow tougher,
But nothing saves a head that's thick.
I'll call on someone else to measure
The merits of my dreamland bride,
Or at my own abundant leisure
Discuss the maiden and decide.
They called her clever, sweet, and pious,
I saw it shining in her eyes;
But evermore the gods deny us
The wives we think we most could prize.
I heard her sing a glorious ballad,
They told me that she studied hard,
I helped her to the chicken salad
With feelings of profound regard.
And never spoke to her thereafter,
But heard of her at distant whiles,
For where she came came merry laughter,
And where she was were pleasant smiles.
I call them flowers, the passion fancies
That cumber one with needless cares,
The social roses, fashion pansies—
Who likes may call them weeds or tares.
Love's acre is extremely fertile
In immortelles that last for hours,
But here's a sprig of real Myrtle
To grace my bunch of passion flowers.
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