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or“When Hearts Are Trumps”
Originally Published By
Frederick A. Stokes, New York
Abela Publishing, London
Poetry for St. Valentine’s Day
Typographical arrangement of this edition
© Abela Publishing 2018
This book may not be reproduced in its current format in any manner in any media, or transmitted by any means whatsoever, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, or mechanical ( including photocopy, file or video recording, internet web sites, blogs, wikis, or any other information storage and retrieval system) except as permitted by law without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The verses in this volume have been selected from work that has appeared in various periodicals during the past five years (1893-1898). Especially to the editors of LIFE, TRUTH, TOWN TOPICS, VOGUE, and MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE I have to offer my thanks for their permission to republish the majority of them.
NEW YORK, February 1, 1894.
* * * * * * *
Abela Publishing acknowledges the work that
did in compiling and publishing this volume
in a time well before any electronic media was in use.
* * * * * * *
10%of the profit from the sale of this book will be donated to Charities
FOR KINGS & QUEENS & BOWERS
The Perfect Face
The Moonlight Sonata
To Phyllis Reading A Letter
A Rose From Her Hair
When I Told Her My Love
My Lady, You Blushed
The American Slave
Sell Her,—That's Right
Time And Place
Blood On The Rose
In Old Madrid
To A Water-Color
To The Rose In Her Hair
Dreaming Of You
Almost Dying Of Ennui
Jacks From Jack
In The Waltz
She Is Mine
Of My Love
The Last Dance
Why He Asked For A Vacation
The Editor's Valentine
The Old-Fashioned Girl
POETRY FOR JOKERS
Her Yachting Cap
Before Her Mirror
At Old Point Comfort
A Drop Too Much
A Few Resolutions
A Choice Not Necessary
That Boston Girl
The Sweet Summer Girl
An Important Distinction
What It Is
In Her Pew
The Suspicious Lover To The Star
A Slight Surprise
Past Vs. Present
The Usual Way
A Difference In Style
Ye Retort Exasperating
A Rhyming Reverie
A Sure Winner
His Usual Fate
On Two Letters From Her
A Serenade—En Deux Langues
When A Girl Says "No."
The Reply Of The Observant Youth
Tying The Strings Of Her Shoe
When You Are Rejected
A Bachelor's Views
The Ice In The Punch
The Tale Of A Broken Heart
Where Did You Get It?
A Midsummer Night's Tempest.
The Abused Gallant
After The Ball
For The Long Voyage
The Graces, on a summer day,
Grew serious for a moment; yea,
They thought in rivalry to trace
The outline of a perfect face.
Each used a rosebud for a brush,
And, while it glowed with sunset's blush,
Each painted on the evening sky,
And each a star used for the eye.
They finished. Each a curtaining cloud
Drew back, and each exclaimed aloud:
"Behold, we three have drawn the same,
From the same model!" Ah, her name?
I know. I saw the pictures grow.
I saw them falter, fade, and go.
I know the model. Oft she lures
My heart. The face, my sweet, was yours.
The notes still float upon the air,
Just as they did that night.
I see the old piano there,—
Oh, that again I might!
Her young voice haunts my eager ear;
Her hair in the candle-light
Still seems an aureole,—a tear
Is my spectroscope to-night.
I hear her trembling tell me "No,"
And I know that she answered right
But I throw a kiss to the stars, and though
She be wed she will dream to-night.
Over the green fields, over the snow,
Something I send thee, something I throw.
No one can guess it; no one can know.
Light as a feather, quick as the eye;
Thin as a sunbeam, deep as the sky;
Worthless, but something a queen could not buy.
Ah, you have caught it, love! How do I know?
Sweet, there are secrets lost ages ago.
Lovers learn all of them. Smile not,—'tis so.
Before her mirror, robed in spotless white,
She stands and, wondering, looks at her own face,
Amazed at its new loveliness and grace.
Smiling and blushing at the pretty sight,
So fraught is she with innocent delight,
She feels the tender thrill of his embrace
Crushing her lilies into flowery lace;
Then sighs and starts, even as though from fright.
Then fleets before her eyes the happy past;
She turns from it with petulant disdain,
And tries to read the future,—but in vain.
Blank are its pages from the first to last.
She hears faint music, smiles, and leaves the room
Just as one rosebud more bursts into bloom.
Give you a problem for your midnight toil,—
One you can study till your hair is white
And never solve and never guess aright,
Although you burn to dregs your midnight oil?
O Sage, I give one that will make you moil.
Just take one weakling little woman's heart.
Prepare your patience, furbish up your art.
How now? Did I not see you then recoil?
Tell me how many times it has known pain;