Poems (Hoffman)/Unrequited Love
UNREQUITED LOVE
He was a youth of doubtful ageNot more than forty, one would guess,But wise as many an older sageAnd faultless in his dress.
His hat was of the latest heightAnd hue, such as the dove might own,The path by which he took his flightWas smoky with cologne.
And oh! the fragrant cheap cigars,'Twould take a Tennyson to dwell(In words that journey to the stars)On his aesthetic sense of smell.
Where'er he went a loud perfumeSwept like a thunder-cloud behindAnd oh! the fragrance of his roomFit symbol of his state of mind.
For as the poet says, he wasA love-sick swain, that common birdWhose sweetest note amid the buzzOf daily life is often heard.
Poor Unrequited Love, his sweetsWere lost upon the desert air,His girl was tired of candy treatsOr for cologne she didn't care.
For sigh as loudly as he mightAnd smile as sweetly as he couldShe kept discreetly out of sightOr passed him speechless where he stood.
His candy in his pocket lodged,His verses to his desk returned,Returning freight he vainly dodgedYet still his love the higher burned.
No more within the lamp's warm glareHis charms of rosy splendor bloom,He walks alone in open airBeneath the rising moon.
His faithful friend whose willing earOft heard his whispered confidenceIs airing all his secrets dearAcross the orchard fence.
His pillow swims in hopeless tearsAnd when his weary trackLeads past some serious girls, he hearsA giggle at his back.
But still with pluck to be admiredHe hovers sweetly 'roundThough his eye once with joy inspiredNow rests upon the ground.
And still his bosom-friend repeatsHis latest agoniesAnd still his widely lavished sweetsCome back to bless his eyes.
O sad, sad story to relate!Ye damsels all give ear,And ye who hope to share his fateThe needful moral hear;
Only a cruel, heartless girlCould such perfumery scorn,Compel a lad of tender yearsTo wander forth forlorn.
Only a brave and dauntless youthOf forty more or lessCould take this Latin motto's truthTo comfort his distress:
"Dum Spiro Spero"—very shortBut quite appropriate,Listen, ye lads of fainter heartWho share a similar fate.
Epitaph
Here lie the stumps of cheap cigars,The ghosts of cheap cologneFloat coldly 'neath the twinkling stars;Where has the hero gone?