Poetry

Waikato Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 2295, 26 March 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry

A BACHELOR BY EDGAR IRVING BRENNER. I led my quiet life alone; I am not cynical or bitter. ■Novels I like —am always prone _ To waste the time I could use fitter, I like a song—my baritone You'd hardly think was one time pleasing. I like a pretty face; but groan To think of nieces, noise and teasing. Poems I read and sometimes write; (You see I frankly tell my failings). Time was when I would oft indite To one—who found them 'neath the railings— But that was long ago. To-night I've fallen into retrospection ; It cannot be—and yet it might That that girl's voice gave thought direction. I hear it rise, I hear it fall, A happy voice in idle chatter; . I lean my head against the wall And close my eyes to such light matter. I know her lover, young and tall, And very, very fond of dancing, I know her, too —not large or small, Or, to my mind, at all entrancing. Nearer it comes. How like (great Heaven !) How like a voice I once knew better, When in my room (it's thirty-seven) I'll hunt that last long tender letter. I wonder if her life's had leaven Of care and pain. Do ills beset.her ? I wonder if I'm quite forgiven, Or does she think I quite forget her ? Or is she placid, old and dull, Without one thought of me and folly? Or is her life of joy so full That now she seems (she was not) jolly? . Well; I'm a fool. This young girls chatter Has turned my thoughts to hours long faded. Her lover loves his love to flatter. So did I when we promenaded. • Dear me ! how long ago that was ! 'Tis years since e'en I've thought about it. She was a winsome, dark-eyed lass, And also won me when the pouted, She knew the art of good effects, Of downcast eyes and sudden changing; Heigho ! a mist is o er my specs. This cool night air is quite deranging. So, like a rare old book that's hid In monkish solitude for ages, Till accident betrays its lid, And gives to light the sacred papes, The past in Life's dull cloister laid, When years and years are gone and numbered, Gives up, without our wish or-aid, The love that with the years has slumbered.