I TAKE my chaperon to the play -- She thinks she's taking me. And the gilded youth who owns the box, A proud young man is he; But how would his young heart be hurt If he could only know That not for his sweet sake I go Nor yet to see the trifling show; But to see my chaperon flirt. Her eyes beneath her snowy hair They sparkle young as mine; There's scarce a wrinkle in her hand So delicate and fine. And when my chaperon is seen, They come from everywhere -- The dear old boys with silvery hair, With old-time grace and old-time air, To greet their old-time queen. They bow as my young Midas here Will never learn to bow (The dancing-masters do not teach That gracious reverence now); With voices quavering just a bit, They play their old parts through, They talk of folk who used to woo, Of hearts that broke in 'fifty-two -- Now none the worse for it. And as those aged crickets chirp I watch my chaperon's face, And see the dear old features take A new and tender grace; And in her happy eyes I see Her youth awakening bright, With all its hope, desire, delight -- Ah, me! I wish that I were quite As young -- as young as she! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY CLASS: ON CERTAIN FRUITS AND FLOWERS SENT ... SICKNESS by SIDNEY LANIER THE RUSSIAN ARMY GOES INTO BAKU by ALICIA SUSKIN OSTRIKER ON A GREEK VASE by FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY: 'LOOK AT THE CLOCK!' by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM THE OLD MAID by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) FAREWELL TO CUBA by MARIA GOWEN BROOKS |