Etchings in Verse (Underhill)/La Raison D'Être

by Andrew Findlay Underhill

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.