Voiceless, they sit: but now her eyes, upturning, Seek his: and now, beneath the lashes’ veil, Leaps a quick flame to set youth’s pulses burning; And now she feels her resolution fail: And now gains strength anew the curious yearning For love’s adventure: now, her fingers frail Tighten about the kerchief’s lacy tissue: And now, at last, he says, “Jill, I _must_ kiss you.” “Bobbie, you mustn’t.” “Jill--just one.” Her shoulder Stiffens; resists the half-encircling arm. Hands fend away the hand that seeks to hold her. Lips murmur. Lashes flutter in alarm. “No, Bobbie. No.” My foolish boy, be bolder; The moment’s fear is half the moment’s charm.... Alas! His missed and amateurish peck Grazes the ear-lobe; lands upon the neck. Readers, both kissed and kissless, chide not; pity These withered fruits from Jill’s dead seas of dreaming. Think--or in France, or in this barraged city, How many a dear one owes his brass hat’s gleaming, How many a husband thanks his safe Committee, To some fond woman’s sound strategic scheming! Ponder--can crafts which men from want to plenty ship, Be steered without an arduous apprenticeship? Ponder! Nor blame my Jill if she disguises Love’s disappointment in disapprobation. If, Artemis in judgment now, she rises-- The outraged goddess, armed for flagellation-- And, with a voice whose every note comprises Disgust, revolt, pain, virtue, indignation, Drives from her father’s chaste, offended portals The meekest of apologising mortals. And blame not me, her bard--whose verses weave her This coronal of memory’s budding-hours, Who loved her long ago, yet now must leave her Lorn ’mid the dance’s _débris_, and the flowers Which fade as day-dreams of that first deceiver-- Because, while War yet ravens and devours, While still the blind guns thunder out in Flanders, I sing the type which cozens and philanders. For, young as Spring and old as Cleopatra, Certain as Nature’s self, this type endureth: On Skindles’ lawn, in jungles of Sumatra, She blooms--a wax-white weed that no rake cureth: From Westminster to _wats_ of Pura Chatra, Her false lips smile, her gladsome optic lureth: WAAC’s may be WREN’s; wars, peace; to-day’s full Colonel, To-morrow’s clerk ... but Jill is sempiternal. VI. _Continues--symptomatically terse-- This first of serials in doggerel verse._