Rather give me coffee,été art, a book, From my windows a delicious sea-view, Southdown mutton, somebody to cook,— “Music?”—I believe you.
Strawberry icebergs in the summer time,— But of elm-wood many a massive splinter, Good ghost stories, and a classic rhyme, For the nights of winter.
Now and then a friend and some Sauterne, Now and then a haunch of Highland venison, And for Lotos-land I’ll never yearn, _Malgré_ Alfred Tennyson. _Mortimer Collins._
SUMMER is sweet, ay! summer is sweet,— Minna mine with the brown, brown eyes: Red are the roses under his feet, Clear the blue of his windless skies. Pleasant it is in a boat to glide On a river whose ripples to ocean haste, With indolent fingers fretting the tide, And an indolent arm round a darling waist— And to see as the Western purple dies, Hesper mirrored in brown, brown eyes.
Summer is fleet, ah! summer is fleet,— Minna mine with the brown, brown eyes: Onward travel his flying feet, And the mystical colours of autumn rise. Clouds will gather round evening star— Sorrow may silence our first gay rhyme,— The river’s swift ripples flow tardier far Than the golden minutes of love’s sweet time: But to me, whom omnipotent love makes wise, There’s endless summer in brown, brown eyes. _Mortimer Collins._
THEY tell me (but I really can’t Imagine such a rum thing), It is the phantom of my Aunt, Who ran away—or something.
It is the very worst of bores: (My Aunt was most delightful). It prowls about the corridors, And utters noises frightful.
At midnight through the rooms It glides, Behaving very coolly, Our hearts all throb against our sides— The lights are burning bluely.
The lady, in her living hours, Was the most charming vixen That ever this poor sex of ours Delighted to play tricks on.
Yes, that’s her portrait on the wall, In quaint old-fangled bodice: Her eyes are blue—her waist is small— A ghost! Pooh, pooh,—a goddess!
A fine patrician shape, to suit My dear old father’s sister— Lips softly curved, a dainty foot: Happy the man that kissed her!
Light hair of crisp irregular curl Over fair shoulders scattered— Egad, she was a pretty girl, Unless Sir Thomas flattered!
And who the deuce, in these bright days, Could possibly expect her To take to dissipated ways And plague us as a spectre? _Mortimer Collins._