What to wear? The Pagan plan Contemplates a coat of tan; But I fear we shall require Just a trifle more attire. Bushes scratch and brambles sting; Insect myriads are a-wing;—  Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm When the woodland air is warm.  (Mem: To take, when we elope, Tanglewood Mosquito Dope.)

Mem

  Do you like the picture, dear? Have you aught of doubt or fear? Have you any criticism Of my neo-Paganism? If not, dearie, let us fly To that passion-ripening sky, Where our souls may have their fling, And our every care take wing.

[Pg 90] So the bird song fluted by, Like a vagrant summer sigh— Came, and passed, and was no more; And my pleasant dream was o’er. For arose the wraith of Doubt; And I knew my pipe was out.

[Pg 90]

[Pg 91] II

[Pg 91]

II

 This is something that befell When my pipe was drawing well— Something, rather, that I heard As the fluting of a bird.

  Daphne, come and live with me In a Pagan greenery. Life will then be naught but play, One long Pagan holiday. We will play at hide and seek In the alders by the creek; Sport amid the cascade’s smother. Splashing water at each other;—  Every moment pleasure wooing, Every moment something doing. If we talk, we’ll talk of Love:  All its arguments we’ll prove. Such a mental rest you’ll find. Leave your intellect behind.

  Night will come, (for come it will,  ’Spite the fluting on the hill,)  And we’ll pitch a cozy camp Where it isn’t quite so damp. While you dry your hair and laze By the campfire’s violet blaze, I will rob a balsam tree To construct a house for thee. What so dear as to be wooed In a sylvan solitude?

[Pg 92]  What so sweet as Pagan vows Whispered in a house of boughs? Pagan love’s without alloy. Pagan kisses never cloy. Arms that cling in Pagan fashion Never tire. A Pagan passion Is the only kind I know That outlives a winter’s snow. Daphne, Daphne, let us fly! You’re a Pagan—so am I.

[Pg 92]

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