Etchings in Verse (Underhill)/At Newport

by Andrew Findlay Underhill

AT NEWPORT.

THEY say you're the belle of the season;
 That you've reaped quite a harvest of hearts;
That the fellows have all lost their reason,
 Each pierced by your eyes' magic darts.

Now of course you are truly enjoying
 These triumphs while you are away,
And you find "lots of fun" in annoying
 Those hearts that are under your sway.

Such hearts as love perfect seclusion
 In some sheltered nook on the beach,
Where they can, without fear of intrusion,
 Indulge in their "nothings" of speech.

Those hearts that with owl-like devotion
 Seek out the dark corners to spoon,
Or try to distill a love potion
 From the beams of the heart-breaking moon.

All these, I've no doubt you have trailing
 Behind you in pensive array,
And the night hours resound with their wailing,
 Till your smile takes their frenzy away.

But what are you doing, or thinking,
 In the twilight of this balmy day?
While the pale stars in heaven are blinking,
 And the cool breeze comes over the bay.

Perhaps, you're alone, and reclining
 On the porch in some quiet cool nook,
And a wreath of soft fancies are twining,
 In your eyes a rapt, far-away look.

Or, more likely, you're dancing a galop,
 Or deuxtemps, or playing at cards,
Or eating, perhaps, a marsh-mallow
 Brought by Harry or George from Maillard's.

Perhaps De la Roche is proposing,
 And calling the stars, and the earth
To witness his love, and, in closing,
 Remarks, apropos—what he's worth.

Perhaps you are talking with Lily
 Of "that little insipid Durand!"
Of how happy he looked, but "so silly,"
 When you squeezed a good-night to his hand.

Perhaps—but I fear that my guessing
 Is fruitless, and foolish; and all
I can do, will not change my distressing,
 Sad lot till you're here in the Fall.