Or if we rode, perhaps she _did_ Pull sharply at the curb; But then the way in which she slid From horseback was superb! She’d throw off odes, again, whose flow And fire were more than Sapphic; Her voice was sweet, and very low; Her singing quite seraphic: She _was_ a seraph, lacking wings. That much I freely own. But, it is one of those queer things Whose cause is all unknown— (Such are the wasp, the household fly, The shapes that crawl and curl By men called centipedes)—that I Simply abhorred that girl. * * * No doubt some mystery underlies All things which are and which are not: And ’tis the function of the Wise Not to expound to us what is what, But let his consciousness play round The matter, and at ease evolve The problem, shallow or profound, Which our poor wits have fail’d to solve, Then tell us blandly we are fools; Whereof we were aware before: That truth they taught us at the schools, And p’raps (who knows?) a little more. —But why did we two disagree? Our tastes, it may be, did not dovetail: All I know is, we ne’er shall be Hero and heroine of a love-tale. FLIGHT. O MEMORY! that which I gave thee To guard in thy garner yestreen— Little deeming thou e’er could’st behave thee Thus basely—hath gone from thee clean! Gone, fled, as ere autumn is ended The yellow leaves flee from the oak— I have lost it for ever, my splendid Original joke. What was it? I know I was brushing My hair when the notion occurred: I know that I felt myself blushing As I thought, “How supremely absurd! “How they’ll hammer on floor and on table “As its drollery dawns on them—how They will quote it”—I wish I were able To quote it just now. I had thought to lead up conversation To the subject—it’s easily done— Then let off, as an airy creation Of the moment, that masterly pun. Let it off, with a flash like a rocket’s; In the midst of a dazzled conclave, Where I sat, with my hands in my pockets, The only one grave. I had fancied young Titterton’s chuckles, And old Bottleby’s hearty guffaws As he drove at my ribs with his knuckles, His mode of expressing applause: While Jean Bottleby—queenly Miss Janet— Drew her handkerchief hastily out, In fits at my slyness—what can it Have all been about? I know ’twas the happiest, quaintest Combination of pathos and fun: But I’ve got no idea—the faintest— Of what was the actual pun. I think it was somehow connected With something I’d recently read— Or heard—or perhaps recollected On going to bed.