I see her pass, I smile and bow,
As I go up Murray Hill,
And I say to a foolish hope of mine:
Be still, be still, be still!
Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine,
Oh, could you see how close her gown
Binds tight and warm about her form,
This maid of New York town,
You'd know a mountain would to me
Be less than Murray Hill,
If only around her my arm could slip,
And she'd stand still, stand still.
Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine!
She is so fair, so rich, so great,
I have no right to think what might
Be this poor clerk's estate.
And yet the bells in yon brick spire,
As we pass on Murray Hill,
They ring, they ring-she's not for me-
And still-and still-and still-
AVE you seen e'er a sign of my Kitty? Have you seen a fair maiden go by Who was wed in this summer-struck city About the first week in July?
How fair was her face there's no telling;
She was well-nigh as wealthy as fair,
And of marble and brick was her dwelling
On the North side of Washington Square.
Have you seen her at Newport a-driving?
Have you seen her a-flirt at the pier?
Is she written among the arriving
At the Shoals or the Hamptons this year?
Or out where the ocean bird flutters
Are the sea-breezes tossing her hair?
For closed are the ancient green shutters
In the house on North Washington Square.
So you, too, are trying to find her?
Then climb up these stairways with me,
That twist and grow blinder and blinder,
Till the skylight near heaven you see.
Is the sun my dull studio gilding?
Ah, no, it is Kitty sits there-
She has moved to the Studio Building
On the South side of Washington Square.
HEY sent him round the circle fair,
To bow before the prettiest there.
I'm bound to say the choice he made
A creditable taste displayed;
Although I can't say what it meant—
The little maid looked ill-content.
His task was then anew begun—
To kneel before the wittiest one.
Once more that little maid sought he,
And went him down upon his knee.
She bent her eyes upon the floor-
I think she thought the game a bore.
He circled then-his sweet behest
To kiss the one he loved the best.
For all she frowned, for all she chid,
He kissed that little maid, he did.
And then-though why I can't decide-
The little maid looked satisfied.
OME find Love late, some find him soon,
Some with the rose in May,
Some with the nightingale in June,
And some when skies are grey;
Love comes to some with smiling eyes,
And comes with tears to some;
For some Love sings, for some Love sighs,
For some Love's lips are dumb.
How will you come to me, fair Love?
Will you come late or soon?
With sad or smiling skies above,
By light of sun or moon?
Will you be sad, will you be sweet,
Sing, sigh, Love, or be dumb?
Will it be summer when we meet,
Or autumn ere you come?
MID the Chapel's chequered gloom
She laughed with Dora and with Flora
And chattered in the lecture-room-
That saucy little sophomora!
Yet while, as in her other schools,
She was a privileged transgressor,
She never broke the simple rules
Of one particular professor.
But when he spoke of varied lore,
Paroxytones and modes potential,
She listened with a face that wore
A look half fond, half reverential.
To her, that earnest voice was sweet,
And, though her love had no confessor,
Her girlish heart lay at the feet
Of that particular professor.
And he had learned, among his books
That held the lore of ages olden,
To watch those ever-changing looks,
The wistful eyes, the tresses golden,
That stirred his pulse with passion's pain
And thrilled his soul with soft desire,
And bade fond youth return again,
Crowned with its coronet of fire.
Her sunny smile, her winsome ways,
Were more to him than all his knowledge,
And she preferred his words of praise
To all the honours of the college.
Yet "What am foolish I to him?"
She whispered to her heart's confessor. "She thinks me old and grey and grim,” In silence pondered the professor.
Yet once when Christmas bells were rung
Above ten thousand solemn churches,
And swelling anthems grandly sung
Pealed through the dim cathedral arches;
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