Lucile By Owen Meredith [i.e. E. R. B. Lytton] |
 |
|
| I. |
| I. |
| I. |
| II. | II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| II. |
 | Lucile |  |
2
II.
Now in May Fair, of course,—in the fair month of May—
When all things in abundance make London so gay;
When street-strawberries are sold, piled in pottles like sheaves,
And young ladies are sold for the strawberry-leaves;
When cards, invitations, and three-corner'd notes
Fly about like white butterflies—gay little motes
In the sunbeam of Fashion; and even Blue Books
Take a heavy-wing'd flight, and grow busy as rooks;
And the postman (that Genius, indifferent and stern,
Who shakes out even-handed to all, from his urn,
Those lots which so often decide if our day
Shall be fretful and anxious, or joyous and gay)
Brings, each morning, more letters of one sort or other
Than Cadmus himself put together, to bother
The heads of Hellenes,—I say, in the season,
Of fair May in May Fair, there can be no reason
Why, when calmly absorbing your dry-toast and butter,
Your nerves should be suddenly thrown in a flutter
At the sight of a neat little letter, address'd
In a woman's hand-writing, containing, half-guess'd,
An odour of violets faint as the spring,
And coquettishly sealed with a small signet-ring.
When all things in abundance make London so gay;
When street-strawberries are sold, piled in pottles like sheaves,
And young ladies are sold for the strawberry-leaves;
When cards, invitations, and three-corner'd notes
Fly about like white butterflies—gay little motes
In the sunbeam of Fashion; and even Blue Books
Take a heavy-wing'd flight, and grow busy as rooks;
And the postman (that Genius, indifferent and stern,
Who shakes out even-handed to all, from his urn,
Those lots which so often decide if our day
Shall be fretful and anxious, or joyous and gay)
Brings, each morning, more letters of one sort or other
Than Cadmus himself put together, to bother
The heads of Hellenes,—I say, in the season,
Of fair May in May Fair, there can be no reason
Why, when calmly absorbing your dry-toast and butter,
Your nerves should be suddenly thrown in a flutter
At the sight of a neat little letter, address'd
In a woman's hand-writing, containing, half-guess'd,
An odour of violets faint as the spring,
And coquettishly sealed with a small signet-ring.
But in autumn, the season of sombre reflection,
When a damp day, at breakfast, begins with dejection;
Far from London and Paris, and ill at one's ease,
Away in the heart of the blue Pyrenees,
Where a call from the doctor, a stroll to the bath,
A ride through the hills on a hack like a lath,
A cigar, a French novel, a tedious flirtation,
Are all a man finds for his day's occupation,
The whole case, believe me, is totally changed,
And a letter may alter the plans we arranged
Over-night, for the slaughter of Time—a wild beast,
Which, though classified yet by no naturalist,
Abounds in these mountains, more hard to ensnare,
And more mischievous too, than the Lynx or the Bear.
When a damp day, at breakfast, begins with dejection;
Far from London and Paris, and ill at one's ease,
Away in the heart of the blue Pyrenees,
3
A ride through the hills on a hack like a lath,
A cigar, a French novel, a tedious flirtation,
Are all a man finds for his day's occupation,
The whole case, believe me, is totally changed,
And a letter may alter the plans we arranged
Over-night, for the slaughter of Time—a wild beast,
Which, though classified yet by no naturalist,
Abounds in these mountains, more hard to ensnare,
And more mischievous too, than the Lynx or the Bear.
| Lucile | |