A Garden Hat.
153
The azure day with its golden frame
And its white clouds lightly flying,
The winds that softly sighed her name,
The rustling leaves replying,
For a garden hat, without a doubt,
Argues a garden sunny,
And there are pretty sure to be bees about
Where are blossoms full of honey;
And only a head full of Love's romance
Would seek such a flimsy cover,
So I know, at my first, most casual glance,
That there must have been a lover.
And its white clouds lightly flying,
The winds that softly sighed her name,
The rustling leaves replying,
For a garden hat, without a doubt,
Argues a garden sunny,
And there are pretty sure to be bees about
Where are blossoms full of honey;
And only a head full of Love's romance
Would seek such a flimsy cover,
So I know, at my first, most casual glance,
That there must have been a lover.
And I'm just as sure of the words he said,
Whatever his creed or nation,
I can guess, though he's long since dumb and dead,
The theme of his oration;
And I like to think that, though each romance,
While believing itself immortal,
Must fade 'neath the finger of time and chance
And pass through decay's dim portal,
The spirit of love is a thing apart,
A flame that no time assuages,
But, lighted afresh at each lover's heart,
Burns on undimmed through the ages.
Whatever his creed or nation,
I can guess, though he's long since dumb and dead,
The theme of his oration;
And I like to think that, though each romance,
While believing itself immortal,
Must fade 'neath the finger of time and chance
And pass through decay's dim portal,
The spirit of love is a thing apart,
A flame that no time assuages,
But, lighted afresh at each lover's heart,
Burns on undimmed through the ages.
