OLD LETTERS
IN a chest in the shadowy attic,
Tied with a ribbon once blue
I found them, these close-written letters.
Like an Ariadne clew
They lead me back through the spring-times
Where the phantom shadows dance,
Through daffodil-gold and lure of rose
To the heart of an old romance.
Tied with a ribbon once blue
I found them, these close-written letters.
Like an Ariadne clew
They lead me back through the spring-times
Where the phantom shadows dance,
Through daffodil-gold and lure of rose
To the heart of an old romance.
In a window shaft of the sunlight
That falls like a golden flail,
I spread out the yellowing pages,
Unwinding the dim old tale.
Here first he recalls how he met her,
And subtly you guess the end
Though with wonderful circumspection
He has signed himself "your friend."
That falls like a golden flail,
I spread out the yellowing pages,
Unwinding the dim old tale.
Here first he recalls how he met her,
And subtly you guess the end
Though with wonderful circumspection
He has signed himself "your friend."
But the careful friendship he offers
Is but a mask for his heart,
For I feel already the stage is set
And Cupid is playing his part.
So I read on, breathless with interest,
Turning the torn leaves back
And find—(O Plato, Plato, you rascal!)
"Ever your true lover, Jack."
Is but a mask for his heart,
For I feel already the stage is set
And Cupid is playing his part.
So I read on, breathless with interest,
Turning the torn leaves back
And find—(O Plato, Plato, you rascal!)
"Ever your true lover, Jack."
In this he upbraids her for teasing,
Confesses the theft of her glove,
And then in a passion of pleading:
"Belinda, I love you! I love!"
And then—Ah, what came between them,
What sad misfortune befell?
For here in the last of the letters
He 1s bidding Belinda "farewell."
Confesses the theft of her glove,
And then in a passion of pleading:
"Belinda, I love you! I love!"
And then—Ah, what came between them,
What sad misfortune befell?
For here in the last of the letters
He 1s bidding Belinda "farewell."
Ah, I'll never piece out the whole story,
For no more letters are here,
And—Is grandpa out there in the garden
Calling: "Belinda, my dear!"
And listen—is that fluting treble
My grandma answering back
Like a dove to its love-mate calling:
"Coming, my sweetheart Jack!"
For no more letters are here,
And—Is grandpa out there in the garden
Calling: "Belinda, my dear!"
And listen—is that fluting treble
My grandma answering back
Like a dove to its love-mate calling:
"Coming, my sweetheart Jack!"
I fold up the yellowing pages
With a feeling of odd regret—
Just to think that my staid little grandma
Was once such a gay coquette!
For in the meeting down in the garden
I read with a single glance
The story from where the letters broke off—
The end of the old romance.
With a feeling of odd regret—
Just to think that my staid little grandma
Was once such a gay coquette!
For in the meeting down in the garden
I read with a single glance
The story from where the letters broke off—
The end of the old romance.