36
A VALENTINE
There, in the great slab fire-place
The oak log, burnt away to coal,
Showed him the semblance of a face
Framed in a golden aureole:
Eyes, the clear windows of a soul—
Soul of a maid, who used to sign
Herself, 'Jim, dear, your Valentine.'
Lips, whose pink curves were made to bear
Love's kisses, not to be the mock
Of grave-worms ... Suddenly a whirr,
And twelve loud strokes upon the clock;
Then at the door a gentle knock.
The collie dog began to whine
That morn of good Saint Valentine.
