Poems (Howard)/Mysterious
Mysterious.
It was on a winter's night, And the wind blew sharp and shrill; Brightly glowed the anthracite Lighting up my domicile, When before the fire I brought My fauteuil, soft and low, Cushioned, carved, and quaintly wrought In the style of long ago.
Care had vanished with the day, And, as by the fire-light rays, Fancy in a dreamy way Pictured scenes of other days; Skillfully her fingers drew, Silently, defined, and clear, One bright panoramic view Of the past forever dear.
Oh, the night was wild without, And the skies were grim and cold; Drifted snow-banks piled about Acres hid of frozen mold; But within, as though 't were Spring, Piping out their chansonnettes I could hear the robins sing, I could smell the violets.
So I dreamed—and woke to find, Roused from this delightful nap, From an unknown donor kind Something lying in my lap; Such a pretty birthday card! As if wafted from above, With a couplet from that bard Who divinely sang of love.
Just a bit of pasteboard, fringed Necktie style and squarely cut, Double-faced and ecru-tinged Like a million others—but Exquisite in flowers rare, Pioneers in blossoming, Redolent of balmy air, Fragrant with the breath of Spring.
How it came I never knew, Nor the "Open Sesame" That my door responded to— It is all a mystery—But to me 't will ever seem Angels dropped it in my room; Inspiration of my dream, Sweet with violet perfume.