LOVE AND PHILOSOPHY.
’Twas a maiden full of knowledge,Though she’d scarcely passed eighteen;She was lovely as an angel,Though of grave and sober mien;A sweet encyclopædiaOf every kind of lore;And love looked coyly from behindThe glasses that she wore.She sat beside her lover,With her elbow on his knee,And dreamily she gazed uponThe slumbering summer sea.Until he broke the silence,Saying, “Pray inform me, dear,What people mean when speakingOf the Thingness of the Here.“I know you’re just from Concord,Where the lights of wisdom be;Your head crammed full to bursting, love,With their philosophy,—“Those grave and reverend sages,And maids of hosiery blue.Then solve me the conundrum, dear,That I have put to you.”The maid replied with gravity,—“The Thingness of the HereIs that which lies between the pastAnd future time, my dear.”“Indeed,” the maid continued, withA calm, unruffled brow,“The Thingness of the Here is justThe Thisness of the Now.”The lover smiled a loving smile,And then he fondly placedA manly and protecting armAround the maiden’s waist;And on her rosebud lips impressedA warm and loving kiss,And said, “That’s what I call, my dear,The Nowness of the This.”Geo. Runde Jackson.
’Twas a maiden full of knowledge,Though she’d scarcely passed eighteen;She was lovely as an angel,Though of grave and sober mien;A sweet encyclopædiaOf every kind of lore;And love looked coyly from behindThe glasses that she wore.She sat beside her lover,With her elbow on his knee,And dreamily she gazed uponThe slumbering summer sea.Until he broke the silence,Saying, “Pray inform me, dear,What people mean when speakingOf the Thingness of the Here.“I know you’re just from Concord,Where the lights of wisdom be;Your head crammed full to bursting, love,With their philosophy,—“Those grave and reverend sages,And maids of hosiery blue.Then solve me the conundrum, dear,That I have put to you.”The maid replied with gravity,—“The Thingness of the HereIs that which lies between the pastAnd future time, my dear.”“Indeed,” the maid continued, withA calm, unruffled brow,“The Thingness of the Here is justThe Thisness of the Now.”The lover smiled a loving smile,And then he fondly placedA manly and protecting armAround the maiden’s waist;And on her rosebud lips impressedA warm and loving kiss,And said, “That’s what I call, my dear,The Nowness of the This.”Geo. Runde Jackson.
’Twas a maiden full of knowledge,Though she’d scarcely passed eighteen;She was lovely as an angel,Though of grave and sober mien;
A sweet encyclopædiaOf every kind of lore;And love looked coyly from behindThe glasses that she wore.
She sat beside her lover,With her elbow on his knee,And dreamily she gazed uponThe slumbering summer sea.
Until he broke the silence,Saying, “Pray inform me, dear,What people mean when speakingOf the Thingness of the Here.
“I know you’re just from Concord,Where the lights of wisdom be;Your head crammed full to bursting, love,With their philosophy,—
“Those grave and reverend sages,And maids of hosiery blue.Then solve me the conundrum, dear,That I have put to you.”
The maid replied with gravity,—“The Thingness of the HereIs that which lies between the pastAnd future time, my dear.”
“Indeed,” the maid continued, withA calm, unruffled brow,“The Thingness of the Here is justThe Thisness of the Now.”
The lover smiled a loving smile,And then he fondly placedA manly and protecting armAround the maiden’s waist;
And on her rosebud lips impressedA warm and loving kiss,And said, “That’s what I call, my dear,The Nowness of the This.”Geo. Runde Jackson.