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Poem	Oh, have you forgotten those afternoons With riot of roses and amber skies, When we thrilled to the joy of a million Junes, And I sought for your soul in the deeps of your eyes? I would love you, I promised, forever and aye, And I meant it too; yet, oh, isn't it odd? When we met in the Underground to-day I addressed you as Mary instead of as Maude. Oh, don't you remember that moonlit sea, With us on a silver trail afloat, When I gracefully sank on my bended knee At the risk of upsetting our little boat? Oh, I vowed that my life was blighted then, As friendship you proffered with mournful mien; But now as I think of your children ten, I'm glad you refused me, Evangeline. Oh, is that moment eternal still When I breathed my love in your shell-like ear, And you plucked at your fan as a maiden will, And you blushed so charmingly, Guenivere? Like a worshiper at your feet I sat; For a year and a day you made me mad; But now, alas! you are forty, fat, And I think: What a lucky escape I had! Oh, maidens I've set in a sacred shrine, Oh, Rosamond, Molly and Mignonette, I've deemed you in turn the most divine, In turn you've broken my heart . . . and yet It's easily mended. What's past is past. To-day on Lucy I'm going to call; For I'm sure that I know true love at last, And She is the fairest girl of all.
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