Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/397

SONG AT THE BARRICADE We lived so merrily, all by ourselves,

On love,—that choice forbidden fruit,—

And never a word my mouth could speak

But your heart already had followed suit.

The Sorbonne was that bucolic place

Where night till day my passion throve:

'T is thus that an ardent youngster makes

The Latin Quarter a Land of Love.

O Place Maubert! O Place Dauphine!

Sky-parlor reaching heavenward far,

In whose depths, when you drew your stocking on,

I saw, methought, a shining star.

Hard-learned Plato I've long forgot:

Neither Malebranche nor Lamennais

Taught me such faith in Providence

As the flower which in your bosom lay.

You were my servant and I your slave:

O golden attic! O joy, at morn,

To lace you—watch you dressing, and viewing

Your girlish face in that glass forlorn!

Ah! who indeed could ever forget

The sky and dawn commingling still;

That ribbony, flowery, gauzy glory,

And Love's sweet nonsense talked at will?

Our garden a pot of tulips was;

Your petticoat curtained the window-pane;

I took for myself the earthen bowl,

And passed you a cup of porcelain.

What huge disasters to make us fun!

Your muff afire; your tippet lost; 367