C. C. Starkweather

TO the shy, sweet face that I saw this morning,

I toss this kiss from my window-sill.

And mayhap my partner will give me warning

If I shove not quicker my grey goose-quill.

I’ve twenty folios yet to fill.

So it’s Blue Eyes, Down! till this deed is drawn;

For Maiden Lane’s not a lover’s lawn,

And the rattle of Broadway never is still.

From seal and parchment and dust-covered papers,

My thoughts fly back to her—willy nil.

I lunch at Cable’s on lamb and capers,

And a secret bumper I drain with Phil,

And I smile when he leaves me to pay the bill.

Oh, it’s Blue Eyes, Down! till this deed is drawn;

For Maiden Lane’s not a lover’s lawn,

And the rattle of Broadway never is still.

My office is no conservatory;

Its walls are like blanks for a clerk to fill;

But that mignonette, jasmine, and morning-glory

The charms of a whole hothouse would kill

In the white vase there, on the window-sill.

But it’s Blue Eyes, Down! till this deed is drawn;

For Maiden Lane’s not a lover’s lawn,

And the rattle of Broadway never is still.

ENVOY

Barristers! with brief-bags to fill

It’s Blue Eyes, Down! till the deeds are drawn,

For Maiden Lane’s not a lover’s lawn,

And the rattle of Broadway never is still.