The Conformers

   Yes; we’ll wed, my little fay,
   And you shall write you mine,
And in a villa chastely gray
   We’ll house, and sleep, and dine.
   But those night-screened, divine,
   Stolen trysts of heretofore,
We of choice ecstasies and fine
                       Shall know no more.

   The formal faced cohue
   Will then no more upbraid
With smiting smiles and whisperings two
   Who have thrown less loves in shade.
   We shall no more evade
   The searching light of the sun,
Our game of passion will be played,
                       Our dreaming done.

   We shall not go in stealth
   To rendezvous unknown,
But friends will ask me of your health,
   And you about my own.
   When we abide alone,
   No leapings each to each,
But syllables in frigid tone
                       Of household speech.

   When down to dust we glide
   Men will not say askance,
As now: ” How all the country side
   Rings with their mad romance!”
   But as they graveward glance
   Remark: ” In them we lose
A worthy pair, who helped advance
                       Sound parish views.”