Collected Works (Vol. III)

to- THE STAR AND THE GARTER Winged, to avail me from the scorn. Of my own concierge. Adorn The facts I might ; you know them not ; But that were just the one black blot On this love’s lesson: still, to excuse Myself to you, who could not choose But make some weak apology Before the concierge’s eye ! True, you are far too high to accuse— Perhaps would rather not be told? You shall hear. Does a miner lose If through the quartz he gets to gold ? Yes: Nina was a thing of nought, A little laughing lewd gamine, Idle and vicious, void of thought, Easy, impertinent, unclean— Utterly charming! Yes, my queen! She had a generous baby soul, Prattled of love. Should I control, Repress perhaps the best instinct The child had ever had? I winked At foolish neighbours, did not shrink. Such café Turc I made her drink As she had never had before 3 Set her where you are sitting ; chatted ; Found where the fires of laughter lurk; Played with her hair, tangled and matted ; Fell over strict nice conduct’s brink, Gave all she would, and something more. She was an honest little thing, Gave of her best, asked no response. What more could Heaven’s immortal king Censed with innumerous orisons? So, by that grace, I recognised A something somewhere to be prized Somewhat. What portress studies song? My worthy concierge was wrong. XXI. THEN let not memory shrink abashed, Once started on this giddy whirl ! Hath not a lightning image flashed Of my divine boot-button girl? She is a dainty acrobat, Tailor-made from tip to toe ; A tiniest coquettish hat, A laughing face alight, aglow With all the fun of life. She comes | Often at morning, laughs aloud At the poor femm’ de ménage ; hums Some dancing tune, invades my cloud Of idle dreams, sits poised upon The couch, and with a gay embrace Cries out ‘‘ Hullo, my baby!” Shone Such nature in a holier face? We are a happy pair at least: Coffee and rolls are worth a feast, And laughing as she came she goes ! The dainty little tuberose ! She has a lithe white body, slim And limber, fairy-like, a snake Hissing some Babylonian hymn Tangled in the Assyrian brake. She stole upon me as I slept: Who wonders I am nympholept? Her face is round and hard and small And pretty—hence the name I gave her Of the boot-button girl. Appal These words? Ah, would your spirit save her? She’s right just as she is: so wise You look through hardly-opened eyes One would believe you could do better. Ma foi! And is your God your debtor? So, my true love, I paint you three Portraits of women that love me. XXII. THESE portraits, darling, are they yours? And yet there sticks the vital fact That these, as you, are women. The devil of the inexact With subtle leasing? Nay! O nay! I’ll catch him with a cord, draw out By a bent fish-hook through his snout, Give to my maiden for a play. You, they, and dinner and—what else p— However unlike, coincide In composition verified Of final protoplasmic cells. Lures