IDYLETTES OF THE QUEEN

I fain would write on pleasant themes;

So let me prate

Awhile of Kate;

And if my rhyming effort seems

Uncouth or rough,

At any rate,

She's Kate,

And that's enough.

Her eyes are bright —

I cannot say “like stars at night,”

Nor can I say

“Like the Orb of Day,”

Because such phrases are archaic.

And if I swear

That they compare

With diamonds rare,

That's too prosaic.

I've hunted my thesaurus through,

“The Century” and “Webster,” too,

But all in vain;

‘ Tis therefore plain

That they who made these books so wise

Had never seen her eyes!

When Kate puts on her Sunday gown

And goes to church all in her best,

The watchful gargoyles looking down

Relax their most forbidding frown,

And smile with kindly interest.

Discerning gargoyles! could I be

One of your number looking down,

With you I surely would agree

And share your amiability

At sight of Kate and Sunday gown.

How much she knows no one can tell;

But she can read and write and spell,

Divide and multiply and add,

And name the apples Thomas had

When John enticed him five to sell.

For “jelly” she does not say “jell,”

Nor horrify us with “umbrell,”

For all of which we're very glad —

How much she knows!

She knows the oyster by his shell,

Detects the newsboy by his yell,

Enumerates the bones in shad,

And thinks my poetry is bad.

Well! well! well! well! well! well! well! well!

How much she knows!

When she utters a sigh

‘ Tis a breath from the roses,

And a-hovering nigh,

When she utters a sigh,

The bees wonder why

No garden discloses.

When she utters a sigh

‘ Tis a breath from the roses.

Her ring goes round her finger.

Oh, foolish thing!

Were I a ring,

I'd not “go round” — I'd linger!

Of faults she has but one,

And that is, she has none.

Sweet and soothing, rhythmic, tuneful,

Dulcet, mellow, unbassoonful,

Zither,‘ cello, lute, guitar,

And there you are!

Do you love me?

R. S. V. P.