WE talked of the opera; talked of the rain, Of the German we danced at the ball; Of Howells and James; of John Fiske and of Spain; Of many things else and of nothing at all.
His manner was studied, polite, commonplace, The "man of the world" all the time, Until a soft rustle preceded your grace And then all the talk was in rhyme.
Not the rhyming of words; but the fountain of prose Dried up like the last Summer's dew; My courtier who chatted in tamest repose Alert, rhymed his spirit to you;
An homage unstudied he laid at your feet; From out his deep caverns of lore He called forth the Muses, and Hymettus sweet He daringly robbed of its store.
The daisies of long ago bloomed in their place, The buds on March twigs burst to view; The birds of his childhood sang smiles to your face,— My cavalier stoic was Poet for you.
Pan piped all his reeds on the marshiest shore And Juno had bluest of eyes, Like tints of the robin's eggs, hunted of yore When you had not come from the skies;
And then 'twas Novalis whose mystical sight Enkindled your cheek and new-lighted your eye, And dear Edwin Arnold, with Kantaka white And spices and roses and Indian dye.
Now tell me, dear friend, with a smile like the sun, And garments enfolding repose, How charmed you this rhapsody forth from the one Who, to me, talked the dullest of prose?
Your face is not fairer; your robe not so rare; Your hand is not jeweled like mine; What is the sweet Alchemy, pray you declare, Gives dullness to me and to you the divine?
