So I read on, breathless with interest,
Turning the torn leaves back
And find—(O Plato, Plato, you rascal!)
"Ever your true lover, Jack."
Turning the torn leaves back
And find—(O Plato, Plato, you rascal!)
"Ever your true lover, Jack."
In this he upbraids her for teasing,
Confesses the theft of her glove,
And then in a passion of pleading:
"Belinda, I love you! I love!"
And then—Ah, what came between them,
What sad misfortune befell?
For here in the last of the letters
He is bidding Belinda "farewell."
Confesses the theft of her glove,
And then in a passion of pleading:
"Belinda, I love you! I love!"
And then—Ah, what came between them,
What sad misfortune befell?
For here in the last of the letters
He is bidding Belinda "farewell."
Ah, I'll never piece out the whole story,
For no more letters are here,
And—Is grandpa out there in the garden
Calling: "Belinda, my dear!"
And listen—is that fluting treble
My grandma answering back
Like a dove to its love-mate calling:
"Coming, my sweetheart Jack!"
For no more letters are here,
And—Is grandpa out there in the garden
Calling: "Belinda, my dear!"
And listen—is that fluting treble
My grandma answering back
Like a dove to its love-mate calling:
"Coming, my sweetheart Jack!"
I fold up the yellowing pages
With a feeling of odd regret—
Just to think that my staid little grandma
Was once such a gay coquette!
For in the meeting down in the garden
I read with a single glance
The story from where the letters broke off—
The end of the old romance.
With a feeling of odd regret—
Just to think that my staid little grandma
Was once such a gay coquette!
For in the meeting down in the garden
I read with a single glance
The story from where the letters broke off—
The end of the old romance.
33
