Classic Poem

Ah , yes, there 's a change in the weather;
It does look a little like snow, —
Though in this recess it seems summer,
And around us these red roses blow.

There is scarcely a theme we 've not touched on —
Secluded, but talking at large —
From the latest lyric of Locker
To the very last freak of Lafarge.

And now it has come to the weather, —
As you say, there 's a feeling of snow;
But do you not think it was warmer
In this window one winter ago?

Whose landscape, that one near the curtain?
It is good? I really don't know;
I am thinking, instead, of the picture
Then seen where these Jacqueminots blow.

Just the same sweet profusion of roses,
A lady, a silken divan,
A vase, — was it Wedgwood or Minton? —
And a gentleman holding a fan.

Was the talk then of art and the weather?
Who could say? — for their voices were low;
But none then who saw them together
Thought it looked in the slightest like snow.

Must I look at that thing on the easel? —
Naughty nymph, and a bad Bouguereau!
But you plainly prefer any picture
To the one whose each detail you know.

You think it unwise to recall things?
Unwise! It is wrong, on my life!
The weather 's so different this winter, —
You are married, and I — have a wife.

Around us the same crimson curtains,
Just as warmly the Jacqueminots glow;
But I feel the same chill that you speak of, —
In the air there is certainly snow!