A BEAUTY'S SOLILOQUY DURING HER HONEYMOON
Too late, too late! I did not know my fairness
Would catch the world's keen eyes so!
How the men look at me! My radiant rareness
I deemed not they would prize so!
That I was a peach for any man's possession
Why did not some one say
Before I leased myself in an hour's obsession
To this dull mate for aye!
His days are mine. I am one who cannot steal her
Ahead of his plodding pace:
As he is, so am I. One doomed to feel her
A wasted form and face!
I was so blind! It did sometimes just strike me
All girls were not as I,
But, dwelling much alone, how few were like me
I could not well descry;
Till, at this Grand Hotel, all looks bend on me
In homage as I pass
To take my seat at breakfast, dinner,—con me
As poorly spoused, alas!
I was too young. I dwelt too much on duty:
If I had guessed my powers
Where might have sailed this cargo of choice beauty
In its unanchored hours!
Well, husband, poor plain man; I've lost life's battle!—
Come—let them look at me.
O damn, don't show in your looks that I'm your chattel
Quite so emphatically!
In a London Hotel, 1892.
