WHAT can I write in thee, O dainty book, <br /> About whose daintiness faint perfume lingers— <br />Into whose pages dainty ladies look, <br /> And turn thy dainty leaves with daintier fingers? <br /> <br />Fitter my ruder muse for ruder song, <br /> My scrawling quill to coarser paper matches; <br />My voice, in laughter raised too loud and long, <br /> Is hoarse and cracked with singing tavern catches. <br /> <br />No melodies have I for ladies’ ear, <br /> No roundelays for jocund lads and lasses— <br />But only brawlings born of bitter beer, <br /> And chorussed with the clink and clash of glasses! <br /> <br />So, tell thy mistress, pretty friend, for me, <br /> I cannot do her hest, for all her frowning, <br />While dust and ink are but polluting thee, <br /> And vile tobacco-smoke thy leaves embrowning. <br /> <br />Thou breathest purity and humble worth— <br /> The simple jest, the light laugh following after. <br />I will not jar upon thy modest mirth <br /> With harsher jest, or with less gentle laughter. <br /> <br />So, some poor tavern-haunter, steeped in wine, <br /> With staggering footsteps thro’ the streets returning, <br />Seeing, through gathering glooms, a sweet light shine <br /> From household lamp in happy window burning, <br /> <br />May pause an instant in the wind and rain <br /> To gaze on that sweet scene of love and duty, <br />But turns into the wild wet night again, <br /> Lest his sad presence mar its holy beauty.<br /><br />Marcus Clarke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-a-lady-s-album/
