Poem by Henry Cuyler Bunner

In a Paris Restaurant

I gaze, while thrills my heart with patriot pride,
Upon the exquisite skin, rose-flushed and creamy;
The perfect little head; on either side
Blonde waves. The dark eyes, vaguely soft and dreamy,
Hold for a space my judgment in eclipse,
Until, with half a pout, supremely dainty,
“He’s red mean “—slips from out the strawberry lips—
“Oh, aint he!”

This at her escort, youthful, black-moustached
And diamond-studded—this reproof; whereat he
Is not to any great extent abashed.
(That youth’s from “Noo Orleens” or “Cincinnatty,”
I’m sure.) But she—those dark eyes doubtful strike
Her sherbet-ice. . . Wont touch it. . . Is induced to.
Result: “I’d sooner eat Mince-Pie, Jim, like
We used to.”

While then my too-soon-smitten soul recants,
I hear her friend discoursing with much feeling
Of tailors, and a garment he calls “pants.”
I note into her eyes a softness stealing—
A shade of thought upon her low, sweet brow—
She hears him not—I swear, I could have cried here—
The escort nudges her—she starts, and—” How?
The idear!”

This was the finishing and final touch.
I rose, and took no further observation.
I love my country “just about” as much—
I have for it as high a veneration—
As a man whose fathers fought for liberty,
Whose veins conduct the blood of Commodore Perry, can.
But she was quite too very awfully
American.

1. For an Old Poet
2. Janiveer in March
3. Farewell to Salvini
4. Shriven
5. Deaf

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