At last, by night, that tarries late,
they hurry home, to Father's rage,
without a chance to plot their way.
The floodgates fail, as the young miss cries.
A handsome lad, pleads with his eyes,
while telling tales, of how and why
their carriage failed, with strokes of luck
which stuck them on the muddy trail
This fate that the chokes the airless room,
has clouded starlight in their eyes,
and fills the mood with doubts and gloom.
An angry Father, waiting long,
behind a frown, as sun goes down
then, with the rise, of devil's moon,
he hears the drum of horses hoofs,
that come at last, and none too soon!...
He had watched the clock count off the hours,
with endless pacing, of the floors.
While mother, fair, and worrisome,
in wilt despair, will hold him now,
to keep his anger in control.
She wrings her hands, and silently
prays her sweet lass, innocently,
was not delayed by guiles of love,
which meant no harm. But with such charms,
was this suitor captive of her smile?
Or were they then so swept away,
by winsome songs, and star's display,
by all love's wiles, and moonlight rays?
Young damsel, fair, who stole the hour
is left a flower, quite untouched
but as a suitor now he must
declare his honor and his hand
of which they will demand !
For the Contest Inspired by the painting of Charles Haigh Wood
Sponsored by Isaiah Zerbst