THE BRASS DOOR-KNOCKER
79
The boat must find him ready at the goal;There is a bag of gold, and (happier chancel)Some red-cheeked Moll to share the voyage to France!
He does not brush the knocker as he goes; Till dawn, undimmed its glimmer shall remain.The sixteenth-century gentleman can snatch Untroubled dreaming, though a crimson stainGrows on the costly carpets, from that patchBetween the linens of a great man's breast.To-morrow shall the knocker know no rest!
Perchance on some rose-scented summer's night An ivory hand has slipped a silken cloak,Dreading the tat-a-tat her trembling makes, Sure that her furtive knock the world awoke,Till from curled head to satin shoe she quakes,And almost turns to flee the way she came,Rosy with blushes from her happy shame!
M'Lord will trust no menial to the door; Sleek-footed he will come himself, to setThe panel wide, yet let no lamplight through. More wide his arms, to teach her to forget,To plant a laughter in her bright eyes blue,Press his hot lips where her white throat is bareAnd carry her, triumphant, up the stair!
The sixteenth-century gentleman may muse A little on the ways of lovers then,A tolerant smile upon his beared lip— M'Lord the Duke is just as other men!Screwed to the door a brass man, too, may slip.Perhaps the light wind moved him to a tuneUpon the panel; or this night of June
