A Bush Study, A La Watteau
HE.
See the smoke-wreaths how they curl so lightly skyward
From the ivied cottage nestled in the trees:
Such a lovely spot—I really feel that I would
Be happy there with children on my knees.
SHE.
No, you wouldn’t. These are merely idle fancies
Of a gentleman much given to day-dreams.
These chimneys always smoke, and, then the chance is
You would have a scolding wife and babe that screams.
HE.
Ah! but look! just there, above that lowly cottage,
Birds are flitting in the sunlight clear and pure;
And the three-score years and ten—man’s poor allottage—
Might be passed away with pleasure there, I’m sure.
SHE.
Now, pray listen, oh, vain wanderer from the city,
And look bravely up and meet my searching eyes:
Would you give up all your town life, bright and witty,
Just because the cottage smoke curls to the skies?
HE.
I regret to find you’re one of those young ladies—
Pet productions of this artificial age:
Rural solitude to you is simply Hades,
And your paradise the ballroom or the stage.
SHE.
Yes, forsooth! and why? Because, my airy dreamer,
I can use my eyes as well as gaily dance—
See the Husband, Wife, the Lover, Dupe and Schemer,
All whirling past and weaving a romance.
HE.
You think, then, Miss, such dreadful social questions
Are like cards, designed to pass away the time;
Do you not perceive that all these pseudo-Christians
Are but moths that flutter round the candle Crime?
SHE.
At the play, too, where I oft with dear mamma go,
There’s the drama being acted in the boards;
And Othello, Desdemona, and Iago
In the boxes, p’raps, without the paint and swords.
HE.
Well, that may be, but the life of show and fashion
[...] Read more
poem by Arthur Patchett Martin
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
