Etchings in Verse (Underhill)/La Raison D'Être
SHREDS AND PATCHES.
LA RAISON D'ÊTRE.
WE were friends, darling May, for four seasons, You and I, who've been lovers for one;And you say I must tell you the reasons Why my love for your highness begun.
First, I thought you a dear, clever creature— Piquante—with what Frenchmen call "chic";And a girl who could well be my teacher In matters where heartstrings are weak.
I admired the style of your dresses, I thought that you had a sweet face;And your carriage was one that impresses A man with its infinite grace.
Your mind, May, was somewhat erratic; For you liked not receptions, and tea—Where the crême of the aristocratic Offer gossip, and scandal all free.
You cared not a rush for ceramics, Bric-à-brac, and high art were a bore;You did not converse on dynamics, Nor dote on Ralph Emerson's lore.
You never described Campanini As "too thrilling, æsthetic, divine; "Nor raved over Booth and Salvini As the only stage planets that shine.
You were not the least bit romantic, And wondered why men were all so;And why they should all act so frantic When a full moon winked at them below.
Society life you "just hated"— So you said, but I know you did not;For a woman like you ne'er was sated By that homage which falls to her lot.
You never were given to gushing, To raptures, hysterics, nor sham;And you only brim o'er when you're "crushing" Some poor, forlorn wife-seeking man.
All your foibles and grace I admired In a sort of indifferent way;But, alas! 'twas not they which inspired My tender regard for you, May.
You remember the Jones's cotillion— Well, 'twas there my heart ceased to beat free;For you "fired" the French count worth a million And danced the whole evening with me.