I fain would write on pleasant themes; So let me prate Awhile of Kate; And if my rhyming effort seems
Uncouth or rough, At any rate, She's Kate, And that's enough.
Her eyes are bright — I cannot say “like stars at night,” Nor can I say “Like the Orb of Day,”
Because such phrases are archaic. And if I swear That they compare With diamonds rare,
That's too prosaic. I've hunted my thesaurus through, “The Century” and “Webster,” too, But all in vain;
‘ Tis therefore plain That they who made these books so wise Had never seen her eyes! When Kate puts on her Sunday gown
And goes to church all in her best, The watchful gargoyles looking down Relax their most forbidding frown, And smile with kindly interest.
Discerning gargoyles! could I be One of your number looking down, With you I surely would agree And share your amiability
At sight of Kate and Sunday gown. How much she knows no one can tell; But she can read and write and spell, Divide and multiply and add,
And name the apples Thomas had When John enticed him five to sell. For “jelly” she does not say “jell,” Nor horrify us with “umbrell,”
For all of which we're very glad — How much she knows! She knows the oyster by his shell, Detects the newsboy by his yell,
Enumerates the bones in shad, And thinks my poetry is bad. Well! well! well! well! well! well! well! well! How much she knows!
When she utters a sigh ‘ Tis a breath from the roses, And a-hovering nigh, When she utters a sigh,
The bees wonder why No garden discloses. When she utters a sigh ‘ Tis a breath from the roses.
Her ring goes round her finger. Oh, foolish thing! Were I a ring, I'd not “go round” — I'd linger!
Of faults she has but one, And that is, she has none. Sweet and soothing, rhythmic, tuneful, Dulcet, mellow, unbassoonful,
Zither,‘ cello, lute, guitar, And there you are! Do you love me? R. S. V. P.
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