I peeped in a volume, old-fashioned and brown,
And thought of the people in History Town,
When life was the light on a bubble of wine
And lovers told love through a pale valentine.
With rondels of roses they kept Venus mute;
And tripped rigadoons and gavottes to a lute;
While, hidden behind a white fan of delight,
In triolet trifles they wasted the night.
Blue-bodiced with satin brocades, and their curls
Close-held to their heads with a fillet of pearls,
They blushed to a rondeau; and under that spell,
Crushed passion to death like a cold villanelle.
But one of those maids had an eyeful of wink,
And one of those gallants was human, I think,
Or how should we two, between laughter and kiss,
Sit hugging each other to Heaven like this?
First published in The Lone Hand, 1 March 1919
