To sing to you would be absurd.

You'd not believe a single word!

To touch you would be madder still, And so I sit and fill . . . and fill My eyes with looking. Like a child Who sees an iced cake, But knows from sad experience The tummy ache!

Women are Like That

"Here, in the drift of the dunes" he said, "Turn your head"!

"Now the curve of your throat is a troubling song Your face is a flower, dreaming and white, My heart cries out in the rapturous night.

Give me your lips and your heart", said he, But she shook her head . . . emphatically!

"Gee, but you're sweet!", the other said, And tilted back her little head Appreciatively.

He didn't call her "fairest one", She didn't mind ... or think it queer ...

But looked on him, adoringly, And whispered . . .

"O my Dearest Dear"!

Tea-Party

They get their heads together, The honeyed malice drips.

And all the gentler little wives Get out their blacksnake whips.

It's such a pleasant pastime The hours simply fly.

Before they know it's time to go But who will make the try O who will have the fort.i.tude To rise and first depart Knowing full well the hungry horde Is dining on her heart!

Hobson's Choice

Life is a rose And life is a thistle - And life is the screech of a steamboat's whistle But nevertheless - if you asked the Dead They'd probably choose to be in your bed!

Letter from Paris

You write of Paris like a man Telling of the woman he loves.

There is love in the lines that draw the city under rain; The higgeldy-piggeldy garrets That climb crazily against the tender pink of the sky; Montmartre, with the cafes, just as you'd read they'd be!

Everything just as glamorous . . . just as exciting A gay ... a mocking . . . a shining, shimmering place A feminine city!

Your regret at leaving Paris Is like parting from a woman.

Paris has wounded you With her loveliness!

Conjecture

Why should I think of you As a Perewinkle?

Retired . . .

Out of sight in your sh.e.l.l . . .

Safe!

I wonder what would happen If once again in your lifetime Someone, armed with a sharp pin, p.r.i.c.ked you into the daylight?

Time Was

When you were here, life did not run In prim and ordered placid rows The sky was full of spinning stars And laughter danced upon its toes!

"Track"!

This is release; This, the sloughing off of the outer husk; The spruces lean To clutch you in a green embrace; But your spirit has already outstripped them Flying in arrowy rhythm Round a sudden turn In the ski trail!

Travellers

We traveled down a gra.s.sy road O sweet it was to wander!

And parted at the forks of it And this is what I ponder: Would it have been a braver thing For us to stay together, In spite of any single thing . . .

Against whatever weather?

Ailurophile

When neighbours' cats begin to yowl and yammer You always want to hit them with a hammer!

But when your own puts on this spring display You almost always wonder "Should we spay?" ...

Or "Shall we add another to our flock And just have kittens, all around the clock"?

O isn't it a thing both true and queer That one cat's "calling" falling on the ear Is troublesome . . . a noisome imposition While with your cat it's just his disposition, And all his other graces far outnumber The yearly Spring nocturnal break of slumber!