Play, play, your sonatas in A, Heedless of what your next neighbour may say! Dance and be gay as a faun or a fay, Sing like the lad in the boat on the bay; Sing, play—if your neighbours inveigh Feebly against you, they’re lunatics, eh? Bang, twang, clatter and clang, Strum, thrum, upon fiddle and drum; Neigh, bray, simply obey All your sweet impulses, stop not or stay! Rattle the “bones,” hit a tinbottom’d tray Hard with the fireshovel, hammer away! Is not your neighbour your natural prey? Should he confound you, it’s only in play. LOVE. CANST thou love me, lady? I’ve not learn’d to woo: Thou art on the shady Side of sixty too. Still I love thee dearly! Thou hast lands and pelf: But I love thee merely Merely for thyself. Wilt thou love me, fairest? Though thou art not fair; And I think thou wearest Someone-else’s hair. Thou could’st love, though, dearly: And, as I am told, Thou art very nearly Worth thy weight, in gold. Dost thou love me, sweet one? Tell me that thou dost! Women fairly beat one, But I think thou must. Thou art loved so dearly: I am plain, but then Thou (to speak sincerely) Art as plain again. Love me, bashful fairy! I’ve an empty purse: And I’ve “moods,” which vary; Mostly for the worse. Still, I love thee dearly: Though I make (I feel) Love a little queerly, I’m as true as steel. Love me, swear to love me (As, you know, they do) By yon heaven above me And its changeless blue. Love me, lady, dearly, If you’ll be so good; Though I don’t see clearly On what ground you should. Love me—ah or love me Not, but be my bride! Do not simply shove me (So to speak) aside! P’raps it would be dearly Purchased at the price; But a hundred yearly Would be very nice. THOUGHTS AT A RAILWAY STATION. ’TIS but a box, of modest deal; Directed to no matter where: Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal— Yes, I am blubbering like a seal; For on it is this mute appeal, “_With care_.” I am a stern cold man, and range Apart: but those vague words “_With care_” Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange: Drawn from my moral Moated Grange, I feel I rather like the change Of air. Hast thou ne’er seen rough pointsmen spy Some simple English phrase—“_With care_” Or “_This side uppermost_”—and cry Like children? No? No more have I. Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry A bear. But ah! what treasure hides beneath That lid so much the worse for wear? A ring perhaps—a rosy wreath— A photograph by Vernon Heath— Some matron’s temporary teeth Or hair!