Replete with sunlight, crowned with amber haze,
Followed by dark and desolate December,
Through all the months of winter we remember.
The sun slipped westward. That peculiar change
Which creeps into the air, and speaks of night
While yet the day is full of golden light,
We felt steal o’er us.
Vivian broke the spell
Of dream-fraught silence, throwing down his book:
“Young ladies, please allow me to arrange
These wraps about your shoulders. I know well
The fickle nature of our atmosphere,—
Her smile swift followed by a frown or tear,—
And go prepared for changes. Now you look,
Like—like—oh, where’s a pretty simile?
Had you a pocket mirror here you’d see
How well my native talent is displayed
In shawling you. Red on the brunette maid;
Blue on the blonde—and quite without design
(Oh, where is that comparison of mine?)
Well—like a June rose and a violet blue
In one bouquet! I fancy that will do.
And now I crave your patience and a boon,
Which is to listen, while I read my rhyme,
A floating fancy of the summer time.
’Tis neither witty, wonderful, nor wise,
So listen kindly—but don’t criticise
My maiden effort of the afternoon:
“If all the ships I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah, well! the harbour could not hold
So many sails as there would be
If all my ships came in from sea.
“If half my ships came home from sea,
And brought their precious freight to me,
Ah, well! I should have wealth as great
As any king who sits in state—
So rich the treasures that would be
In half my ships now out at sea.
“If just one ship I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown:
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