He r a n dMeby Paul West.HER locks were the glowOf a dollar or so,Her height it was few if not less;Her eyes were as grayAs the end of the play,And she wore, so they told me, a dress.So I said, as I came,“If you’ll whisper your nameI’ll reply, though I’m tempted to laugh.”But she said, “Let me see—More and F equals three,Which, when added, is him and a half.”“Are you certain?” I cried,As I breasted the tide.“If I do,” she insisted, “say no.”Whereupon with a frownI invited them down,For it never grows well in the snow.There were more, I’ve no doubt,But I never found out,For the cook sent the grocer away;But I cannot forgetThat she wrote, “Do not fret,”Though her uncle advised me to pay.So I sit all alone,Writing things on a stoneWith a pen dipped in beeswax and lard;Which I know I shall beWhen she comes back to me,Though at present it’s dreadfully hard.Drawn by F. B. Masters.
by Paul West.
HER locks were the glowOf a dollar or so,Her height it was few if not less;Her eyes were as grayAs the end of the play,And she wore, so they told me, a dress.So I said, as I came,“If you’ll whisper your nameI’ll reply, though I’m tempted to laugh.”But she said, “Let me see—More and F equals three,Which, when added, is him and a half.”“Are you certain?” I cried,As I breasted the tide.“If I do,” she insisted, “say no.”Whereupon with a frownI invited them down,For it never grows well in the snow.There were more, I’ve no doubt,But I never found out,For the cook sent the grocer away;But I cannot forgetThat she wrote, “Do not fret,”Though her uncle advised me to pay.So I sit all alone,Writing things on a stoneWith a pen dipped in beeswax and lard;Which I know I shall beWhen she comes back to me,Though at present it’s dreadfully hard.
HER locks were the glowOf a dollar or so,Her height it was few if not less;Her eyes were as grayAs the end of the play,And she wore, so they told me, a dress.
H
ER locks were the glow
Of a dollar or so,
Her height it was few if not less;
Her eyes were as gray
As the end of the play,
And she wore, so they told me, a dress.
So I said, as I came,“If you’ll whisper your nameI’ll reply, though I’m tempted to laugh.”But she said, “Let me see—More and F equals three,Which, when added, is him and a half.”
So I said, as I came,
“If you’ll whisper your name
I’ll reply, though I’m tempted to laugh.”
But she said, “Let me see—
More and F equals three,
Which, when added, is him and a half.”
“Are you certain?” I cried,As I breasted the tide.“If I do,” she insisted, “say no.”Whereupon with a frownI invited them down,For it never grows well in the snow.
“Are you certain?” I cried,
As I breasted the tide.
“If I do,” she insisted, “say no.”
Whereupon with a frown
I invited them down,
For it never grows well in the snow.
There were more, I’ve no doubt,But I never found out,For the cook sent the grocer away;But I cannot forgetThat she wrote, “Do not fret,”Though her uncle advised me to pay.
There were more, I’ve no doubt,
But I never found out,
For the cook sent the grocer away;
But I cannot forget
That she wrote, “Do not fret,”
Though her uncle advised me to pay.
So I sit all alone,Writing things on a stoneWith a pen dipped in beeswax and lard;Which I know I shall beWhen she comes back to me,Though at present it’s dreadfully hard.
So I sit all alone,
Writing things on a stone
With a pen dipped in beeswax and lard;
Which I know I shall be
When she comes back to me,
Though at present it’s dreadfully hard.
Drawn by F. B. Masters.
Drawn by F. B. Masters.
Drawn by F. B. Masters.