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Poem	"Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him-- Tell him the page I didn't write; Tell him I only said the syntax, And left the verb and the pronoun out. Tell him just how the fingers hurried Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow- And then you wished you had eyes in your pages, So you could see what moved them so. "Tell him it wasn't a practised writer, You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled; You could hear the bodice tug, behind you, As if it held but the might of a child; You almost pitied it, you, it worked so. Tell him--No, you may quibble there, For it would split his heart to know it, And then you and I were silenter. "Tell him night finished before we finished And the old clock kept neighing 'day!' And you got sleepy and begged to be ended-- What could it hinder so, to say? Tell him just how she sealed you, cautious But if he ask where you are hid Until to-morrow,--happy letter! Gesture, coquette, and shake your head!"
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