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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,
Hes red mean slips from out the strawberry lips
Oh, aint he!

This at her escort, youthful, black-moustached
And diamond-studdedthis reproof; whereat he
Is not to any great extent abashed.
(That youths from Noo Orleens or Cincinnatty,
Im sure.) But shethose dark eyes doubtful strike
Her sherbet-ice. . . Wont touch it. . . Is induced to.
Result: Id 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 notI swear, I could have cried here
The escort nudges hershe 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

Henry Cuyler Bunner

Henry Cuyler Bunner's other poems:
  1. The Future of the Classics
  2. Just a Love Letter
  3. Shriven
  4. Candor
  5. The Chaperon

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