By Private Post.
From a white-winged ship in a far-off
bay,1
’Mid halcyon isles of the blue southern seas,2
A dark bearded face oft looks fondly this way,3
And wafts to his Mecca a sigh on the breeze.4
My letters to him go by sixpenny post ;5
But then there is something he sadly will miss,6
Because the bonne bouche he would care for the most7
They cannot convey. Can you guess ? It’s a kiss !8
So I keep my own pillar-box. You never saw9
A prettier Cupid, more perfect design ;10
A statuette rosy, a gem without flaw,11
Bedimpled and beautiful—almost divine.12
I’ve just washed my dear little boy for the night,13
Then—sweet broken music—he babbled his prayers ;14
His body and soul are anew clean and white,15
Just like Jacob’s angels ascending the stairs.16
Who can tell whither his spirit may roam,17
When once those soul-windows are curtained in sleep ;18
Perchance it may float in the star-spangled dome,19
Or fly to his father far over the deep.20
For love laughs at locksmiths, defies bolts and bars,21
The bounds of its pinions no mortal can tell,22
It soars with the seraphs, outwinging the stars,23
It won back Eurydice even from hell.24
And so, full of faith, they shall reach him somehow—25
I send nightly kisses away to the South,26
My choicest ones, meant for my dear husband’s brow,27
By Love’s own post-office, my baby-boy’s mouth.28