Between the Courses.
155
Reiterates again, and yet again,
As if it mattered! that a crimson stain
Leapt up into your cheek, when, stooping low,
I laid my hand upon your saddle-how,
Insists, as if it mattered! that there came
A lovely light, half shadow and half flame,
Into your eyes when—Yes, the grapes are fine!-
When I had—Pardon, did you ask for wine?
Allow me, pray—when I had told you all,
Poor, blundering idiot! being in a thrall,
Spellbound, bewildered by that phantom thing,
That dear delusion that the poets sing,
Called—Heaven help it!—by the name of Love,
And kissing, like a child, your doeskin glove,
Its very buttons, and the milk-white wrist
That lent itself in dimples to be kissed.
And this was I—the self -same I, whose lips
Would scorn, to-night, to touch your finger-tips,
This self -same I, who scarce would pause to hear
If one should pour whole love-songs in his ear,
This I, who—"Hush, in mercy cease!" I will
Because, oh, cruel love! I love you still.
No, do not rise, nor lose that well-bred charm,
That suits you as these opals suit your arm,
I have not raised my voice a single tone,
As if it mattered! that a crimson stain
Leapt up into your cheek, when, stooping low,
I laid my hand upon your saddle-how,
Insists, as if it mattered! that there came
A lovely light, half shadow and half flame,
Into your eyes when—Yes, the grapes are fine!-
When I had—Pardon, did you ask for wine?
Allow me, pray—when I had told you all,
Poor, blundering idiot! being in a thrall,
Spellbound, bewildered by that phantom thing,
That dear delusion that the poets sing,
Called—Heaven help it!—by the name of Love,
And kissing, like a child, your doeskin glove,
Its very buttons, and the milk-white wrist
That lent itself in dimples to be kissed.
And this was I—the self -same I, whose lips
Would scorn, to-night, to touch your finger-tips,
This self -same I, who scarce would pause to hear
If one should pour whole love-songs in his ear,
This I, who—"Hush, in mercy cease!" I will
Because, oh, cruel love! I love you still.
No, do not rise, nor lose that well-bred charm,
That suits you as these opals suit your arm,
I have not raised my voice a single tone,
