The Language of Love
Oh! he was a student of mystic lore;
And she was a soulful girl
All nerves and mind, of the cultured kind
The paragon, pride, and pearl.
They loved with a neo-Concordic love,
Woofed weirdly with wistful woe.
They sat in a glen, remote from men,
Their converse was high and low.
“What marvellous words of marvellous love,
Speak marvellous souls like these?”
I drew me nigh till their faintest sigh
Was heard with the greatest ease.
“‘Oo’s ’ittle white lammy is ’oo?” breathed he;
“‘Oors. ‘Oo’s lovey-dovey is ’oo?”
“‘Oors! ‘Oors! Would ’oo k’y if dovey should die?”
“No’p!—tause ’ittle lammy’d die too.”
How truthful we poets! The “language of Love”
Is a phrase we employ full oft;
But whenever we do, we prefix thereto,
You’ve noticed, the adjective “soft.”