by G. K. Chesterton
Tell me not, friend, you are unkind,
If ink and books laid by,
You turn up in a uniform
Looking all smart and spry.
I thought your books one horrid smudge,
Your books one pile of trash,
And with less fear of smear embrace
A sword, a belt, a sash.
Yet this inconstancy forgive,
Though gold lace I adore,
I could not love the lace so much
Loved I not Lovelace more.
* * *
There's Chesterton for you. But there's a nice touch at the end: Lucasta doesn't love Lovelace because of his uniform; she loves the uniform because Lovelace is inside it.
No comments:
Post a Comment