Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.
Henry Cuyler Bunner 18551896
Henry Cuyler Bunner242 Just a Love-Letter
The town goes on as though It thought you still were in it; The gilded cage seems scarce to know That it has lost its linnet; The people come, the people pass; The clock keeps on a-ticking: And through the basement plots of grass Persistent weeds are pricking. Since you had left the City: But on the snow-drifts lingering At last the skies took pity, Then Summer’s yellow warmed the sun, Daily decreasing distance— I really don’t know how ’t was done Without your kind assistance. I ’ve paid the call of duty; She gave me one small glass of port— ’T was ’34 and fruity. The furniture was draped in gloom Of linen brown and wrinkled; I smelt in spots about the room The pungent camphor sprinkled. You sat and dropped your thimble— You know—you said you did n’t care; But I was nobly nimble. On hands and knees I dropped, and tried To—well, I tried to miss it: You slipped your hand down by your side— You knew I meant to kiss it! Propriety and precision: But, praised be Love, that kiss just came Beyond your line of vision. Dear maiden aunt! the kiss, more sweet Because ’t is surreptitious, You never stretched a hand to meet, So dimpled, dear, delicious. I found the Drive deserted; The water-trough beside the way Sad and superfluous spurted. I stood where Humboldt guards the gate, Bronze, bumptious, stained and streaky— There sat a sparrow on his pate, A sparrow chirp and cheeky. It seems a happy second, Against a life-time lone and slow, By Love’s wild time-piece reckoned— You smiled, by Aunt’s protecting side, Where thick the drags were massing, On one young man who did n’t ride, But stood and watched you passing. Not that I care to eat there; But for the dear clandestine days When we two had to meet there. Oh, blessed is that baker’s bake, Past cavil and past question; I ate a bun for your sweet sake, And Memory helped Digestion. Van Brunt has gone to Venice; Loomis invites me to the Branch, And lures me with lawn-tennis. O bustling barracks by the sea! O spiles, canals, and islands! Your varied charms are naught to me— My heart is in the Highlands! That all too faintly flutters Among the dusty city trees, And through my half-closed shutters: A northern captive in the town, Its native vigor deadened, I hope that, as it wandered down, Your dear pale cheek it reddened. In halcyon vacation Will sure afford a much more free Mode of communication; I ’m tantalized and cribbed and checked In making love by letter: I know a style more brief, direct— And generally better!