The Yellow Book/Volume 8/Postscript

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Postscript

By Ernest Wentworth

This enviable paper! Oh, to thinkThat it will go, will really, really goTo her, my mistress. Had it soul to know,What enviable paper! Oh, to think———
The sweet light of her eyes, her sweet clear eyes,Shall shine on it; her sweet cool hands caress it,And bear it to her sweet warm lips; and press itThe sweet pale roses of her cheek. First, eyes,
Hands, lips, and cheek, and then, at night, all night,In the sweet darkness of her room (ah, so!)In the sweet stillness of her room (speak low!)I guess where it will lie, at night, all night.
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