Fuess and Stearns, comps. The Little Book of Society Verse. 1922.
By. Frank Dempster ShermanA Rhyme for Priscilla
D
Like a modern Puritan,
Is a modest, literary,
Merry young American:
Horace she has read, and Bion
Is her favorite in Greek;
Shakespeare is a mighty lion
In whose den she dares but peek;
Him she leaves to some sage Daniel,
Since of Lions she’s afraid,—
She prefers a playful spaniel,
Such as Herrick or as Praed;
And it’s not a bit satiric
To confess her fancy goes
From the epic to a lyric
On a rose.
With a sentimental mind,
Does n’t deign to dip in Dante,
And to Milton is n’t kind;
L’Allegro, Il Penseroso
Have some merits she will grant,
All the rest is only so-so,—
Enter Paradise she can’t!
She might make a charming angel
(And she will if she is good),
But it’s doubtful if the change’ll
Make the Epic understood:
Honey-suckling, like a bee she
Goes and pillages his sweets,
And it’s plain enough to see she
Worships Keats.
For the Locker whom she loves;
What a captivating verse on
Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves
He could write in catching measure,
Setting all the heart astir!
And to Aldrich what a pleasure
It would be to sing of her,—
He, whose perfect songs have won her
Lips to quote them day by day.
She repeats the rhymes of Bunner
In a fascinating way,
And you’ll often find her lost in—
She has reveries at times—
Some delightful one of Austin
Dobson’s rhymes.
Writing of you makes me think,
As I burn my brown Manila
And immortalize my ink,
How well satisfied these poets
Ought to be with what they do
When, especially, they know it’s
Read by such a girl as you:
I who sing of you would marry
Just the kind of girl you are,—
One who does n’t care to carry
Her poetic taste too far,—
One whose fancy is a bright one,
Who is fond of poems fine,
And appreciates a light one
Such as mine.