Classic Poem

There are blessings still in store
When we're desperate of the least;
I have fallen in love once more
Though I thought I quite had ceased.
Once again I feel the ache,
And the yearning and the flame,
And the thrill you can't mistake
When you hear the lady's name.

She's so positively rich
Quite a host of fellows vow
That she ought to settle which
She proposes to endow.
But her heart's a secret shrine
Where a magic fountain drips;
She would scorn to waste love's wine
On their avaricious lips

I exhibit ignorance
Of her father's stocks and shares.
And when people talk finance
I assume superior airs.
Yet with wariness and wile
Though my wits are well combined,
Still her red lips do not smile,
Nor her pretty eyes look kind,

Every hope and wish beside,
Every prospect, faint or large,
I'd forego if she'd confide
Her dear future to my charge.
For love little recks of thrift
When youth's passion gathers heat;
All my life in one great gift
I would lavish at her feet.

She has self-assertive ways
And her plans are all her own,
What she purchases or pays
Is her business alone.
But upon her haughty brow
Other dealings will appear;
There is many a happy vow
To be whispered in her ear.

Not in politics profound
She is clever in the house;
She will stand upon her ground
During rumours of a mouse.
And she never faints of fright
When a chimney goes on fire,
While a thunderstorm at night
Is a thing we both admire.

She has principles of dress
Which respect the latest code,
But she quite avoids excess
And abhors the waspish mode.
She has never heaped her head
With a trophy of the chase;
She objects to brilliant red,
And despises modern lace.

With a talent quite unfeigned
She is court and kitchen wise;
And phenomenally trained
She can cook and criticise.
She could bake you white or brown.
And the servants proudly say
You must tie her sponge-cake down
Lest it rise and float away.

For good music and high art,
For the ball-room and the street,
Growing native in her heart
That rare blossom—Taste—you meet.
She detests (I hate it too)
All society veneer,
And the way she looks it through
Is distractingly severe.

While the flowers that seek the sun
Are the soonest flowers to fall,
Fruit the hardest to be won
Is the sweetest after all.
So I humour her conceits
And endeavour not to vex;
Could you win her—Hope repeats—
You could sign your name to cheques.