2. THE CAUDLE

Sweet Love that sways the reeling years,

The crown and chief of certitudes,

For whose calm eyes and modest ears

Time writes the rule and text of prudes —

That, surpliced, stoops a nuptial head,

Nor chooses to live blindly free,

But, with all pulses quieted,

Plays tunes of domesticity —

That Love I sing of and have sung

And mean to sing till Death yawn sheer,

He rules the music of my tongue,

Stills it or quickens, there or here.

I say but this: as we went up

I heard the Monthly give a sniff

And “if the big dog makes the pup —”

She murmured — then repeated “if!”

The caudle on a slab was placed;

She snuffed it, snorting loud and long;

I fled — I would not stop to taste —

And dreamed all night of things gone wrong.