Classic Poem

Is it true, then, my girl, that you mean it —
— The word spoken yesterday night?
Does that hour seem so sweet now between it
— And this has come day's sober light?
Have you woke from a moment of rapture
— To remember, regret, and repent,
And to hate, perchance, him who has trapped your
— Unthinking consent?

Who was he, last evening — this fellow
— Whose audacity lent him a charm?
Have you promised to wed Pulchinello?
— For life taking Figaro's arm?
Will you have the Court fool of the papers,
— The clown in the journalists' ring,
Who earns his scant bread by his capers,
— To be your heart's king?

When we met quite by chance at the theatre
— And I saw you home under the moon,
I'd no thought, love, that mischief would be at her
— Tricks with my tongue quite so soon;
That I should forget fate and fortune
— Make a difference 'twixt Sevres and delf —
That I'd have the calm nerve to importune
— You, sweet, for yourself.

It's appalling, by Jove, the audacious
— Effrontery of that request!
But you — you grew suddenly gracious,
— And hid your sweet face on my breast.
Why you did it I cannot conjecture;
— I surprised you, poor child, I dare say,
Or perhaps — does the moonlight affect your
— Head often that way?


You're released! With some wooer replace me
— More worthy to be your life's light;
From the tablet of memory efface me,
— If you don't mean your Yes of last night.
But — unless you are anxious to see me a
— Wreck of the pipe and the cup
In my birthplace and graveyard, Bohemia —
— Love, don't give me up!