ARCADIA REVISITED

by: Bret Harte (1836-1902)

H, here's the spot -- the very tree

Where once I carved an L. and E.,

Symbolical of her and me

Bound in Love's rosy fetters;

Since then five weary years are spent,

And yet I think we're both content

That in Love's Book we never went

Beyond our simple letters.

 

For, looking through the rustling leaves,

I see the humble cottage eaves

Where now my Em. no longer weaves

Her mystic maiden fancies,

But milks her cows -- she called 'em kine

In the brave days when she was mine--

But now she's dropped those phrases fine

She borrowed from romances.

 

But here's the place -- the very tree

Where once I fell on bended knee

And breathed my burning vows -- while she

Stood by in pale pink muslin.

I kissed her hand -- but why revamp

Old feelings now? -- the grass is damp,

And what with this rheumatic cramp

To kneel now would be puzzling.

 

She walks no more 'neath starlit skies,

She calls the evening mists that rise

Miasma, and the dew that lies

Is damp and cold and shocking.

She now wears boots. Five years ago

Her skirts she gathered up below;

'T was not from dampness, but to show

Her slippers and white stocking.

 

Beneath this shade we used to read

"Maud Muller," and we both agreed

The Judge was wrong -- but why proceed?

She's married to another!

She has not pined -- that form is stout

That once this arm was clasped about,

She has two girls; they're both, no doubt,

The image of their mother!

 

She said she loved not "wealth or state,"

But most adored the "wise and great,"

And gave a look to intimate

That this was my complexion;

"Her husband should be eyed like Mars,"

That's he, there, letting down the bars,

In cowhide boots. No doubt her Pa's,

But O, not her selection!

 

And yet, am I her young love's dream:

The pensive lover that did seem

The rightful Prince who should redeem

The promise of her fancies?

And I that same dyspeptic youth

Who rang the chimes on "sooth" and "truth,"

Minus that cuspidate tooth

Whose presence kills romances?

 

O Love, behind yon leafy screen!

Why can't all trees be evergreen?

Why can't all girls be sweet sixteen,

All men but one-and-twenty?

Why are the scars that hearts must wear

Deeper than those yon tree may bear?

And why are lovers now so rare,

And married folk so plenty?

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