152
A Garden Hat.
I found it to-day in the dust and gloom,
Where the moths and the spiders revel,
Of a communistic lumber room,
Where the ranks of all are level,
Where the aristocrats of a by-gone day
Hobnob with plebeian lumber,
And rosewood trifles and velvets gay
With deal and horsehair slumber,
And fans that will flutter and flirt no more
By delicate fingers wielded
Lie on the dust-encumbered floor
By kindly cobwebs shielded,
And packets of letters, dim and pale,
As the passions their writers vaunted,
In faded characters seem to rail
In the silence spectre-haunted.
Where the moths and the spiders revel,
Of a communistic lumber room,
Where the ranks of all are level,
Where the aristocrats of a by-gone day
Hobnob with plebeian lumber,
And rosewood trifles and velvets gay
With deal and horsehair slumber,
And fans that will flutter and flirt no more
By delicate fingers wielded
Lie on the dust-encumbered floor
By kindly cobwebs shielded,
And packets of letters, dim and pale,
As the passions their writers vaunted,
In faded characters seem to rail
In the silence spectre-haunted.
I found it to-day, with its edges frayed,
Its garland of poppies wilted,
A garden hat, beneath whose shade
A charming chin was tilted,
And against its broad, low sweeping brim
Her sunny hair would cluster,
Her dark eyes dancing with every whim
And alight with youth's own lustre.
Its garland of poppies wilted,
A garden hat, beneath whose shade
A charming chin was tilted,
And against its broad, low sweeping brim
Her sunny hair would cluster,
Her dark eyes dancing with every whim
And alight with youth's own lustre.
