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The Duet

Pat purchases a copy of Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s Poems of Passion, and marks a line from this poem.

She was, in spite of her infatuation, a bit surprised to find that Lester could write poetry. She had faintly and reluctantly suspected that he wouldn’t know poetry when he saw it. But A Wild Blue Violet was “free verse.” Everything else, Lester told her, was outmoded. The tyranny of rhyme was ended forever. She would never have dared let him know after that that she had bought a second-hand volume called Poems of Passion and underlined half of them. I shall be dust when my heart forgets, she underlined twice.

-Pat of Silver Bush ch.33,1

The Duet
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I was smoking a cigarette;
Maud, my wife, and the tenor McKey,
Were singing together a blithe duet,
And days it were better I should forget
Came suddenly back to me.
Days when life seemed a gay masque ball,
And to love and be loved was the sum of it all.

As they sang together, the whole scene fled,
The room’s rich hangings, the sweet home air,
Stately Maud, with her proud blonde head,
And I seemed to see in her place instead
A wealth of blue-black hair,
And a face, ah! your face - yours, Lisette;
A face it were wiser I should forget.

We were back - well, no matter when or where,
But you remember, I know, Lisette,
I saw you, dainty, and debonnaire,
With the very same look that you used to wear
In the days I should forget.
And your lips, as red, as the vintage we quaffed,
Were pearl-edged bumpers of wine when you laughed.

Two small slippers with big rosettes,
Peeped out under your kilt-skirt there,
While we sat smoking our cigarettes
(Oh, I shall be dust when my heart forgets!)
And singing that self-same air,
And between the verses for interlude,
I kissed your throat, and your shoulders nude.

You were so full of a subtle fire,
You were so warm and so sweet, Lisette;
You were everything men admire,
And there were no fetters to make us tire,
For you were - a pretty grisette.
But you loved, as only such natures can,
With a love that makes heaven or hell for a man.

They have ceased singing that old duet,
Stately Maud and the tenor, McKey.
“You are burning your coat with your cigarette,
And qu’ avez vous, dearest, your lids are wet,”
Maud says, as she leans o’er me.
And I smile, and lie to her, husband-wise,
“Oh, it is nothing but smoke in my eyes.”