Lent

I met heron the throuroughfare,

Sweet Libbie, and I paused to stare;

Her eyes were downcast, looks demure—

I looked again to just be sure

That it was Liebschen, sure enough;

Her golden locks had lost their fluff;

There were no ribbons in her gown;

Her face was smooth, sans smile, sans frown,

And so I gazed in wonderment,

And then remembered, “It is Lent.”

And then I chuckled; it did seem

As if a dancing, laughing gleam

Of yellow sunshine had essayed

For just a while to masquerade

As shadow; all these thoughts did chase

Across my mind; but Libbie’s face

Showed not a trace of consciousness

That I was there; it did express

A mind on inward thought intent,

And I remembered, “It is Lent.”

And though the wild birds caroled shrill,

And though the branches whispered still,

And though the bees hummed, and the day

Was worth a lilting roundelay,

So sweet it was with every wile

The spring doth bring, the velvet pile

Of the new grasses, and perfumes

Of all the vari-colored blooms,

She paced along, sedate, intent

On inward thoughts, for it was Lent.

The little rascal!  Pink and white,

And fairly bubbling with delight

And joy, to go in such a guise!

All smooth of hair, downcast of eyes,

In plainest garb, bereft of frill,

It was as if a whippoorwill

Had tuned its note of joy and love

To imitate the mourning-dove.

Libbie sedate!  By George, I think

She looked just then!  Was that a wink?

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