I braved a frowning family, I offered her my best, And worshipped her in silence as my sister’s chosen guest. As the flowers seek the sunlight, as the birds adore the air, So Diana loved the water, loved to comb her Titian hair. The neighbors talked of nothing but my sister Mary’s taste-- Of vagaries and vanities, and time that went to waste. But when my sister came at last to claim our protégée, I was her only confidante, and comfort’s only ray; I was her only confidante in all the good old town, And she whispered: “Our Diana never owned a dressing gown; “Never owned a beaded bodice, never owned a veil of tulle; “Her gowns are made from sparkles of the waters of a pool; “And those who cry for draperies, arouse the gods of wrath, “For the gods possess their copies of ‘Diana at the Bath!’” THE READING BOY He is carved in alabaster, he is called the Reading Boy, A cross-legged little pagan, pondering o’er the Siege of Troy; He’s a miniature Adonis, with a bandeau round his head, And he’s reading late and early when he ought to be in bed. He cons an ancient manuscript, he scanneth as a sage, But with all his mighty reading, never yet hath turned a page; Never alabaster side glance at the turtle in the bowl, Never alabaster wiggle, ’though I know he has a soul. I have watched him late and early, just an image out of Rome, And politely offered bookmarks to divert him from that tome; Yea, with aggravating gestures sought to turn aside his face, But not for pots of honey could you make him lose his place. There he sits in sweet perfection that the chisel did unveil, With the rapture of an angel up against a lively tale. But I’d give an old maid’s ransom, just to see that little wretch, Discard that Trojan magazine, and give a real good stretch. THE BATTLE ON THE FLOOR My father was a soldier, so Some nights he talks of war; He tells of guns at “action right,”-- The battlefield’s the floor. He says: “My little daughter Nan, “There’s art in every fight, “So push the chairs and rugs around “And set the battle right. “Put down the vase and candlesticks, “And throw the books around-- “We want to show a town in France, “With shell-holes in the ground. “Here’s infantry and batteries, “And outposts, out before; “That piece of string will do for wires “Laid by the Signal Corps. “The enemy’s upon the rug, “We’ve fathomed their design; “So now we’ll bring the doughboys up “And charge the whole darn line.” The captains, on the carpet, shout-- “Reserves are back too far”-- But the guns go into action with The smoke of Pa’s cigar. Then Ma gets mad, and says that Pa Was shell-shocked once in War, Or else he wouldn’t want to play At battles on the floor. She says that war is bad enough, And pretty rough, to boot, Without a battlefield at home, Or teaching girls to shoot.