I see her portrait hanging there, Her face, but only half as fair, And while I scan it, Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met —
She smiles. I never can forget The smile of Janet. A matchless grace of head and hand, Can Art pourtray an air more grand?
It cannot — can it? And then the brow, the lips, the eyes — You look as if you could despise Devotion, Janet.
I knew her as a child, and said She ought to have inhabited A brighter planet: Some seem more meet for angel wings
Than Mother Nature's apron strings,— And so did Janet. She grew in beauty, and in pride, Her waist was slim, and once I tried,
In sport, to span it, At Church, with only this result, They threatened with quicunque vult Both me and Janet.
She fairer grew, till Love became In me a very ardent flame, With Faith to fan it: Alas, I played the fool, and she...
The fault of both lay much with me, But more with Janet. For Janet chose a cruel part,— How many win a tender heart
And then trepan it! She left my bark to swim or sink, Nor seemed to care — and yet, I think, You liked me, Janet.
The old old tale! you know the rest — The heart that slumbered in her breast Was soft as granite: Who breaks a heart, and then omits
To gather up its broken bits, Is heartless, Janet. I'm wiser now — for when I curse My Fate, a voice cries, “Bad or worse
You must not ban it: Take comfort, you are quits, for if You mourn a Love, stark dead and stiff, Why so does Janet.”
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