 | Studies in verse (1865) |  |
“Believe in nothing? Oh, I believe in much.
I do believe it were an infinite sport,
To follow the first pretty girl we meet
In some quaint quiet village of the land,
That looks demure enough about the lips
To give a zest of trouble to the thing;
And fill her head with all the trash boys use,
Half pirated from novels, half believed,
About eternal passion, adding scraps
Of Byron, sound and words and common forms.
Flash on her with your money and fine clothes,
Make her despise the contrast of her home;
And charm her with elaborate display
Of surface manners, airy courtesies,
Which one, thank God, a gentleman can use
For his own purpose and put off at will:
And these poor girls dote on a gentleman:
They miss his polish in their kindred boors,
Brothers and shopmen suitors. She is yours
After a little trouble, if you add
The fear of compromise. Play out the dream
And leave it: there is nought on this poor earth
So worth the trouble: your philosopher,
Give him his chance, is childish as a child
Before the snare of passion. To the winds
His books and papers, if he thinks a girl,
A mere child waiting with an April face,
Would, if he came not, weep some shallow tears:
Can thinking on the fossil and the star
Suffice the man, or weed his nature out?
His best ambition is but as the clown's,
If his pride loses this, he loses all.”
I do believe it were an infinite sport,
To follow the first pretty girl we meet
In some quaint quiet village of the land,
That looks demure enough about the lips
To give a zest of trouble to the thing;
And fill her head with all the trash boys use,
Half pirated from novels, half believed,
About eternal passion, adding scraps
46
Flash on her with your money and fine clothes,
Make her despise the contrast of her home;
And charm her with elaborate display
Of surface manners, airy courtesies,
Which one, thank God, a gentleman can use
For his own purpose and put off at will:
And these poor girls dote on a gentleman:
They miss his polish in their kindred boors,
Brothers and shopmen suitors. She is yours
After a little trouble, if you add
The fear of compromise. Play out the dream
And leave it: there is nought on this poor earth
So worth the trouble: your philosopher,
Give him his chance, is childish as a child
Before the snare of passion. To the winds
His books and papers, if he thinks a girl,
A mere child waiting with an April face,
Would, if he came not, weep some shallow tears:
Can thinking on the fossil and the star
47
His best ambition is but as the clown's,
If his pride loses this, he loses all.”
| Studies in verse (1865) | |