You pause, you poise, you circle up Among my old Japan; You find a comrade on a cup, A friend upon a fan; You wind anon, a breathing-while, Around AMANDA'S brow;-- Dost dream her then, O Volatile! E'en such an one as thou? Away! Her thoughts are not as thine. A sterner purpose fills Her steadfast soul with deep design Of baby bows and frills; What care hath she for worlds without, What heed for yellow sun, Whose endless hopes revolve about A planet, _aetat_ One! Away! Tempt not the best of wives; Let not thy garish wing Come fluttering our Autumn lives With truant dreams of Spring! Away! Re-seek thy "Flowery Land;" Be Buddha's law obeyed; Lest Betty's undiscerning hand Should slay ... a future PRAED! THE CURE'S PROGRESS. Monsieur the Cure down the street Comes with his kind old face,-- With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. You may see him pass by the little "_Grande Place_," And the tiny "_Hotel-de-Ville_"; He smiles, as he goes, to the _fleuriste_ Rose, And the _pompier_ Theophile. He turns, as a rule, through the "_Marche_" cool, Where the noisy fish-wives call; And his compliment pays to the "_Belle Therese_," As she knits in her dusky stall. There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece, Has jubilant hopes, for the Cure gropes In his tails for a _pain d'epice_. There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, Who is said to be heterodox, That will ended be with a "_Ma foi, oui!_" And a pinch from the Cure's box. There is also a word that no one heard To the furrier's daughter Lou; And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, And a "_Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!_" But a grander way for the _Sous-Prefet_, And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne; And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat, And a nod to the Sacristan:-- For ever through life the Cure goes With a smile on his kind old face-- With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. THE MASQUE OF THE MONTHS. (FOR A FRESCO.) Firstly thou, churl son of Janus, Rough for cold, in drugget clad, Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us;-- Firstly thou, churl son of Janus. Caverned now is old Sylvanus; Numb and chill are maid and lad. After thee thy dripping brother, Dank his weeds around him cling; Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,-- After thee thy dripping brother. Hearth-set couples hush each other, Listening for the cry of Spring.