Lady, unwreath thy hair,
That is so long and fair."
"Do let me see your poem.... It is charming. But what do you mean by
'enchanted hair'? Is it that my hair has enchanted you? 'And weave a
web of gold.'... 'Unwreath'--do you mean unloose my hair?"
"Dames, tressez vos cheveux blonds
Qui sont si lourds et si longs.
"How well it goes with French!"
"I don't understand French, but I like your poem in English. Do you
know, I like it very much!"
It is easy to obtain appreciation for poetry in such circumstances.
Horace's best ode would not please a young woman as much as the
mediocre verses of the young man she is in love with. It is well that
it should be so, and this is the dreamer's criticism of life as he
sits lost in shadow, lit up here and there by the blaze. He remembers
the warmth of the grass and the scanty bushes; there was hardly
sufficient cover that spring day for lovers in Vincennes, and he tries
to remember if he put his hand on her white ankle while she was
reading the poem. So far as he can remember he did, and she checked
him and was rather cross, declaring just like the puss-cat that he
must not do such things, that she would not have come out with him had
she thought he was going to misbehave himself in that way.
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