When Hearts are Trumps
By
Tom Hall
New York
Frederick A. Stokes
Company
Publishers
Frederick H. Stokes
Company
Sixth Edition
September 1898
The verses in this volume have been selected from work that has appeared in various periodicals during the past five years. Especially to the editors of LIFE, TRUTH, TOWN TOPICS, VOGUE, and MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE I have to offer my thanks for their permission to republish the majority of them.
T.H.
NEW YORK, February 1, 1894.
Contents.
[To Phyllis Reading a Letter.]
[Why he asked for a Vacation.]
[The Suspicious Lover to the Star.]
[The Reply of the Observant Youth.]
[Tying the Strings of her Shoe.]
[A Midsummer Night's Tempest.]
Kings
&
Queens
&
Bowers
The Perfect Face.
The Graces, on a summer day,
Grew serious for a moment; yea,
They thought in rivalry to trace
The outline of a perfect face.
Each used a rosebud for a brush,
And, while it glowed with sunset's blush,
Each painted on the evening sky,
And each a star used for the eye.
They finished. Each a curtaining cloud
Drew back, and each exclaimed aloud:
"Behold, we three have drawn the same,
From the same model!" Ah, her name?
I know. I saw the pictures grow.
I saw them falter, fade, and go.
I know the model. Oft she lures
My heart. The face, my sweet, was yours.
The Moonlight Sonata.
The notes still float upon the air,
Just as they did that night.
I see the old piano there,—
Oh, that again I might!
Her young voice haunts my eager ear;
Her hair in the candle-light
Still seems an aureole,—a tear
Is my spectroscope to-night.
I hear her trembling tell me "No,"
And I know that she answered right
But I throw a kiss to the stars, and though
She be wed she will dream to-night.
The Kiss
Over the green fields, over the snow,
Something I send thee, something I throw.
No one can guess it; no one can know.
Light as a feather, quick as the eye;
Thin as a sunbeam, deep as the sky;
Worthless, but something a queen could not buy.
Ah, you have caught it, love! How do I know?
Sweet, there are secrets lost ages ago.
Lovers learn all of them. Smile not,—'tis so.
The Bride.
Before her mirror, robed in spotless white,
She stands and, wondering, looks at her own face,
Amazed at its new loveliness and grace.
Smiling and blushing at the pretty sight,
So fraught is she with innocent delight,
She feels the tender thrill of his embrace
Crushing her lilies into flowery lace;
Then sighs and starts, even as though from fright.
Then fleets before her eyes the happy past;
She turns from it with petulant disdain,
And tries to read the future,—but in vain.
Blank are its pages from the first to last.
She hears faint music, smiles, and leaves the room
Just as one rosebud more bursts into bloom.
A Problem.
Give you a problem for your midnight toil,—
One you can study till your hair is white
And never solve and never guess aright,
Although you burn to dregs your midnight oil?
O Sage, I give one that will make you moil.
Just take one weakling little woman's heart.
Prepare your patience, furbish up your art.
How now? Did I not see you then recoil?
Tell me how many times it has known pain;
Tell me what thing will make it feel delight;
Tell me when it is modest, when 'tis vain;
Tell me when it is wrong and when 'tis right:
But tell me this, all other things above,—
Can it feel, Sage, the thing that man calls "Love"?
To Phyllis Reading a Letter.
A smile is curving o'er her creamy cheek,
Her bosom swells with all a lover's joy,
When love receives a message that the coy
Young love-god made a strong and true heart speak
From far-off lands; and like a mountain-peak
That loses in one avalanche its cloy
Of ice and snow, so doth her breast employ
Its hidden store of blushes; and they wreak
Destruction, as they crush my aching heart,—
Destruction, wild, relentless, and as sure
As the poor Alpine hamlet's; and no art
Can hide my agony, no herb can cure
My wound. Her very blush says, "We must part."
Why was it always my fate to endure?
A Rose from her hair.
She gave me a rose from her hair,
And she hid her young heart within it.
I could hardly speak from despair,
Till she gave that rose from her hair,
And leaned out over the stair
With a blush as she stooped to pin it.
She gave me a rose from her hair,
And she hid her young heart within it.
When I told her my Love.
When I told her my love,
She was maidenly shy,
And she bit at her glove.
I gave Cupid a shove;
Yes, I begged him to try,
When I told her my love
What was she thinking of
As she uttered that sigh
And she bit at her glove?
And pray what does it prove
That she stopped there to sigh,
When I told her my love
And she bit at her glove?
My Lady, you Blushed.
My lady, you blushed.
Was my love a surprise?
How quickly they hushed!
A curl of yours brushed
All else from my eyes.
My lady, you blushed.
You say that I gushed,
And they all heard my sighs?
How quickly they hushed!
Your roses were crushed;
N'importe wherefores and whys.
My lady, you blushed.
The American Slave.
Come, muster your pleasantest smile, my dear,
And put on your prettiest gown.
Forget about Jack for a while, my dear,
His lordship has just come to town.
He's come here to get him a wife, my dear,
And you have been put up for sale
With a marvellous income for life, my dear,
To balance your side of the scale.
His lordship is feeble and old, my dear,—
What odds? All the sooner he'll die.
And he has a sore need of your gold, my dear:
See the good you can do if you'll try.
And then a real lady you'll be, my dear,
Not only by nature but name;
Mamma'll be so proud,—you can see, my dear,
No one thinks it, as you do, a shame.
So bend your proud head. Are you faint, my dear?
Keep the tears back, be buoyant and brave.
Keep that pose! Now a portrait we'll paint, my dear,
To be called "The American Slave."
Sell Her,—That's Right.
Sell her,—that's right! She is young, she is fair;
There's the light of the sun in the coils of her hair.
And her soul is as white as the first flakes of snow
That are falling to-night. 'T is a bargain, a "go"
Sell her,—that's right!
Sell her,—that's right! For a bag full of gold.
Put her down in your ledger, and label her "Sold"
She's only a beauty with somebody's name,
And the Church for a pittance will wash out the shame.
Sell her,—that's right!
Time and Place.
Hasten on! The mad moonlight is beaming
On the hatred and love 'twixt us two;
And it beams on the maid who is dreaming,
And the grave made for me or for you.
Time and place,—love and life in the balance,
Fear and hope in the glance of your eye.
Draw your blade! Forget not we are gallants