On the Landing.
91
Soft steps on the staircase—two shadows that pass,
Scarce ruffling the dewdrops that lie on the grass;
A white bernouse lying forlorn on the stair,
A sad, little idyl thus improvised there.
Scarce ruffling the dewdrops that lie on the grass;
A white bernouse lying forlorn on the stair,
A sad, little idyl thus improvised there.
And Flame was a moral—ah! doubtless; but then
'Twas a pity he stayed there to talk with the men.
He won all his wagers, he hated to lose,
But somehow the sight of a soft, white bernouse
Had power to unnerve him and stab him with pain,
And set his strong fingers aquake on the rein;
And even when Flame passed the post by a head,
He hadn't a smile—at least, so the men said.
'Twas a pity he stayed there to talk with the men.
He won all his wagers, he hated to lose,
But somehow the sight of a soft, white bernouse
Had power to unnerve him and stab him with pain,
And set his strong fingers aquake on the rein;
And even when Flame passed the post by a head,
He hadn't a smile—at least, so the men said.
