Just A Love Letter

NEW YORK, July 20, 1883. DEAR GIRL: The town goes on as though It thought you still were in it; The gilded cage seems scarce to know That it has lost its linnet. The people come, the people pass; The clock keeps on a-ticking; And through the basement plots of grass Persistent weeds are pricking. I thought ‘twould never come — the Spring — Since you had left the city; But on the snow-drifts lingering At last the skies took pity. Then Summer’s yellow warmed the sun, Daily decreasing distance — I really don’t know how ‘twas done Without your kind assistance. Aunt Van, of course, still holds the fort: I’ve paid the call of duty; She gave me one small glass of port — ‘Twas ‘34 and fruity. The furniture was draped in gloom Of linen brown and wrinkled; I smelt in spots about the room The pungent camphor sprinkled. I sat upon the sofa where You sat and dropped your thimble — You know — you said you didn’t care; But I was nobly nimble. On hands and knees I dropped, and tried To — well, I tried to miss it: You slipped your hand down by your side — You knew I meant to kiss it! Aunt Van, I fear we put to shame Propriety and precision; But, praised be Love, that kiss just came Beyond your line of vision. Dear maiden aunt! the kiss, more sweet Because ‘tis surreptitious, You never stretched a hand to meet, So dimpled, dear, delicious. I sought the Park last Saturday; I found the Drive deserted; The winter-trough beside the way Sad and superfluous spurted. I stood where Humboldt guards the gate, Bronze, bumptious, stained, and streaky — There sat a sparrow on his pate, A sparrow chirp and cheeky. Ten months ago! Ten months ago It seems a happy second, Against a life-time lone and slow, By Love’s wild time-piece reckoned — You smiled, by Aunt’s protecting side, Where thick the drags were massing, On one young man who didn’t ride, But stood and watched you passing. I haunt Purssell’s — to his amaze — Not that I care to eat there, But for the dear clandestine days When we two had to meet there. Oh, blessed is that baker’s bake, Past cavil and past question: I ate a bun for your sweet sake, And memory helped digestion. The Norths are at their Newport ranch; Van Brunt has gone to Venice; Loomis invites me to the Branch, And lures me with lawn tennis. O bustling barracks by the sea! O spiles, canals, and islands! Your varied charms are naught to me — My heart is in the Highlands! My paper trembles in the breeze That all too faintly flutters Among the dusty city trees, And through my half-closed shutters: A northern captive in the town, Its native vigor deadened, I hope that, as it wandered down, Your dear pale cheek it reddened. I’ll write no more! A vis-a-vis In halcyon vacation Will sure afford a much more free Mode of communication. I’m tantalized and cribbed and checked In making love by letter: I know a style more brief, direct — And generally better!