Read Ebook: Cap and Gown A Treasury of College Verse by Knowles Frederic Lawrence Compiler

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Ebook has 1048 lines and 39500 words, and 21 pages

~How I Love Her.

~Dear, I'll tell you how I love you-- Not by singing sweetly of you-- Oh, I love you far too much, For the daintiest rhyme's light touch; No, it needs no language signs, It's written here between the lines, How I love you! You will see If you look there, loving me.

~Polly.

~She fluttered gaily down the hill-- That merry, dimpled lass-- She hurried singing down the hill, And then she loitered by the mill, And saw the bubbles pass, Made double in the glass Of the mirror of the water, greeny still.

She heard a sparrow pertly cry, She smelt the new-mown hay, She felt the sunshine in the sky, As lightly she went skipping by, A-down the sunny way-- 'Twas like a holiday, The keen, expectant sparkle in her eye.

And Cupid's wings were on her feet, As nimbly she ran down; And Cupid's wings were on her feet: For pretty Polly went to meet Her lover in the town. She wore that lilac gown That made him say--oh, nothing to repeat!

~Under the Rose.

~Last night the blush rose clustered,-- To-day the rough wind blows In showers her broken petals; Last night,--yet no one knows,-- I kissed thee, sweetheart, sweetheart, Under the rose!

Last night my fond hope blossomed,-- To-day December snows Drift deep and cold above it; To-day,--ah! no one knows,-- My heart breaks, sweetheart, sweetheart, Under the rose!

~A Bit of Human Nature.

~'Tis only a pair of woman's eyes, So long-lashed, soft, and brown, Half hiding the light that in them lies, As dreamily looking down.

'Tis only the dainty curve of a lip, Half full, half clear defined, And the shell-like pink of a finger-tip, And a figure half reclined.

'Tis only a coil of rich, dark hair, With sunlight sifted through, And a truant curl just here and there, And a knot of ribbon blue.

'Tis only the toe of a high-heeled shoe, With the glimpse of a color above-- A stocking tinted a faint sky-blue, The shade that lovers love.

'Tis only a woman, and I--'twere best To forget that waving fan. She only a woman--you know the rest? But I am only a man.

~Her Little Glove.

~Her little glove, I dare aver, Would set your pulses all astir; It hides a something safe from sight So soft and warm, so small and white, A cynic would turn flatterer!

Could Pegasus have better spur? 'Twould almost cause a saint to err-- A Puritan to grow polite-- Her little glove.

~Skating Hath Charms.

~So cold was the night, And her cheeks were cold, too, Though it wasn't quite right, So cold was the night, And so sad was her plight, That I--well, wouldn't you? So cold was the night, And her cheeks were cold, too.

~The Portrait.

~Pearls and patches, powder and paint, This was her grandmother years ago. Gown and coiffure so strange and quaint, Features just lacking the prim of the saint, From the mischievous dimple that lurks below; High-heeled slippers and satin bow, Red lips mocking the heart's constraint, Free from passion, devoid of taint-- This was her grandmother years ago.

Straight and slender, gallant and tall. Ah, how he loved her, years ago! Just so she looked at that last dim ball, When, in a niche of the dusk old hall, They whispered together soft and low. She whispered "yes," but fate answered "no:" Some one listened and told it all, And the horses might wait by the garden wall, But none came to answer him, years ago.

So, standing, fresh as the rose on her breast, Smiling down on me here below, Never a care on her brow impressed, Never the dream of a thought confessed Of all the weariness and the woe, Hearts would break were time not so slow. Swept are life's chambers; comes the new guest. Old love, or new love--which was the best? For this was her grandmother years ago.

~The Convert.

~I wrote lots of trash about Cupid, And the telling bewitchment of curls, And that men were excessively stupid To be madly devoted to girls. I remarked that true love was unstable, As compared with position or pelf, 'Till one day I met you, little Mabel, And learned what it felt like, myself!

Don't read all the things I have written When I knew that my heart was my own, But since I confess I am smitten, Read these little verses alone. And sincerely I trust I'll be able To convince you, you sly little elf, To grant me your heart, little Mabel, And learn what it feels like yourself!

~A Thief's Apology.

~I stole a kiss!--What could I do? Before the door we stood, we two, About to say a plain good-by; She seemed so innocent and shy, But what she thought, I thought I knew.

Ah, swift the blissful moments flew, And when at last I said adieu , but I-- I stole a kiss.

~A Ballad of Dorothy.

~It's "Dorothy! Where's Dorothy?" From morn to even fall, There's not a lad on Cowslip Farm Who joins not in the call. It's Dolly here and Dolly there, Where can the maiden be? No wench in all the countryside's So fine as Dorothy.

With tucked-up gown and shining pail, Before the day is bright, Down dewy lanes she singing goes Among the hawthorns white. Perchance her roses need her care, She tends them faithfully. There's not a rose in all the world As fresh and sweet as she!

As true of heart as sweet of face, With gay and girlish air, The painted belles of citydom Are not a whit as fair. Come Michaelmas the parish chimes Will ring out merrily. Who is the bride I lead to church? Why, who but Dorothy?

~A Cup and Saucer Episode.

~'Twas only coffee, yet we both drank deep, I won't deny I felt intoxication; For just to see those roguish moon-eyes peep Over the cup, I plunged in dissipation.

She raised her cup, and I raised also mine; She gave a look, as if "Now are you ready?" Our eyes met o'er the rims--it seemed like wine, So sweet, divine, bewitching, almost "heady."

So cup on cup! The salad, too, was good. I had of that far more than my fair rations. Yet served it merely as an interlude Between the music of the cup flirtations.

And then to have her say 'twas all my fault! I fairly blushed, and gazed down at my cup. I noticed, though, she had not called the halt Until the pot was empty, every sup.

~Faint Heart Ne'er Won Fair Lady.

~"The burn runs swiftly, my dainty lass, And its foam-wreathed stones are mossy, An I carry ye ower to yonder shore Ye will na think me saucy?"

"I thank ye, sir, but a Scottish lass Recks not of a little wetting. Will ye stand aside, sir? I can na bide, sir. The sun o' the gloamin's setting."

"Yet stay, my pretty, the stepping-stones Are a bridge o' my are hands' making. An ye pay no toll I maun be so bold-- The sweeter a kiss for taking."

"Farewell, ye braw young Highlander. Tho' first ye sought to mask it: Unceevil 'tis to steal a kiss. But muckle waur to ask it."

~A Foreign Tongue.

~When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue, Their words are not like ours, But full of meanings like the throb of flowers Yet in the earth, unborn. I think the snow Feels the mysterious passage and the flow Of inarticulate streams that surge below. And it is easy learning for the young; When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue.

~Ye Gold-Headed Cane.

~It stands in the corner yet, stately and tall, With a top that once shone like the sun. It whispers of muster-field, playhouse, and ball, Of gallantries, courtship, and fun. It is hardly the stick for the dude of to-day, He would swear it was deucedly plain, But the halos of memory crown its decay-- My grandfather's gold-headed cane.

It could tell how a face in a circling calash Grew red as the poppies she wore, When a dandy stepped up with a swagger and dash. And escorted her home to her door. How the beaux cried with jealousy, "Jove! what a buck!" As they glared at the fortunate swain, And the wand which appeared to have fetched him his luck-- My grandfather's gold-headed cane.

Oh, the odors of lavender, lilac, and musk! They scent these old halls even yet; I can still see the dancers as down through the dusk They glide in the grave minuet. The small satin slippers, my grandmamma's pride, Long, long in the chest have they lain; Let us shake out the camphor and place them beside My grandfather's gold-headed cane.

~Hours.

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