- To Alicia—Ætat. 20
When you made custard tarts—of mud—
Which Tweedle vowed delicious—
And I with popguns sought the blood
Of Red-Men, huge and vicious—
That was our glad, mad, rainbow age,
Those days when we together
Climbed thro' the orchard wall to wage
Such wars—in lath and feather!
I sit and ponder sadly o'er
Each wound of poor old Tweedle—
Who shed her sawdust brave before
Her nurse could find a needle!
We stormed and took each orchard tree—
True, long the foe resisted!—
Then gave each captive, for his tea.
Mud-pies, as you insisted!
But now, they say, your trousseau 's made.
And you, poor child, will shortly
Be married to a person staid.
And rich, though somewhat portly!
Ah, me! My youth, mud-pies, and You,
Are gone—gone past recover!
Yet, Dear, I 'm still your old and true
And one unchanging lover!
