Eleanor Rogers Cox

WHAT waspish whim of Fate

Was this that bade you here

Hold dim, unhonored state,

No single courtier near?

Is there, of all who pass,

No choice, discerning few

To poise the ribboned glass

And gaze enwrapt on you?

Sword-soul that from its sheath

Laughed leaping to the fray,

How calmly underneath

Goes Brooklyn on her way!

Quite heedless of that smile—

Half-devil and half-god,

Your quite unequalled style,

The airy heights you trod.

Ah, could you from earth’s breast

Come back to take the air,

What matter here for jest

Most exquisite and rare!

But since you may not come,

Since silence holds you fast,

Since all your quips are dumb

And all your laughter past—

I give you mine instead,

And something with it too

That Brooklyn leaves unsaid—

Your meed of homage due.

Ah, Prince, you smile again—

“My faith, the court is small!”

I know, dear James—but then

It’s I or none at all!