Yes; we’ll wed, my little fay,

   And you shall write you mine,

And in a villa chastely gray

   We’ll house, and sleep, and dine.

   But those night-screened, divine,

   Stolen trysts of heretofore,

We of choice ecstasies and fine

      Shall know no more.

   The formal faced cohue

   Will then no more upbraid

With smiting smiles and whisperings two

   Who have thrown less loves in shade.

   We shall no more evade

   The searching light of the sun,

Our game of passion will be played,

      Our dreaming done.

   We shall not go in stealth

   To rendezvous unknown,

But friends will ask me of your health,

   And you about my own.

   When we abide alone,

   No leapings each to each,

But syllables in frigid tone

      Of household speech.

   When down to dust we glide

   Men will not say askance,

As now: “How all the country side

   Rings with their mad romance!”

   But as they graveward glance

   Remark: “In them we lose

A worthy pair, who helped advance

      Sound parish views.”