So a lov'd little hand comes smoothing down--
Wandering kisses can anger eclipse;
The beautiful forehead has ceased to frown,
And sweet is the kiss I find on my lips.
'Ah, dearest,' I whisper, 'mourn not for this,
On a summer day with a heap of flowers;
This cannot be sorrow, or if it is,
It is a sorrow that cannot be ours.'
All the strange passion had vanish'd, I ween;
The Harry I knew had come back again;
And on his sweet face I had never seen
A sweeter smile than illumin'd it then.
With smiles he caress'd me: 'you little thing--
You dear little thing,' he tenderly said;
'We have banish'd you by the cards we bring;
Let us banish cards and have you instead.'
I clapp'd my hands, and my heart beat light,
As I softly whisper'd, 'Indeed you may,
For I'm certain, Harry, it is not RIGHT
To spend so much money and time at play.'
He gave me an odd little look askance,
And mutter'd, 'A man must do something though;'
I answer'd the look with a loving glance,
'But the something need not be cards, you know;
There is plenty to do before we die,
That may suit a gay and a careless mood;
We are _so_ happy, Harry, you and I,
That I think we ought to be ever so good.
Playing at cards for money, I'm clear,
Is an alien thing in beautiful lives'--
He grumbled, 'The fellows will think me queer;
But then the poor fellows have _not_ got wives.
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