Incognita.

Just for a space that I met her--     Just for a day in the train!     It began when she feared it would wet her,     That tiniest spurtle of rain:     So we tucked a great rug in the sashes,     And carefully padded the pane;     And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes,     Longing to do it again!     Then it grew when she begged me to reach her     A dressing-case under the seat;     She was "really so tiny a creature,     That she needed a stool for her feet!"     Which was promptly arranged to her order     With a care that was even minute,     And a glimpse--of an open-work border,     And a glance--of the fairyest boot.     Then it drooped, and revived at some hovels--     "Were they houses for men or for pigs?"     Then it shifted to muscular novels,     With a little digression on prigs:     She thought "Wives and Daughters" "so jolly;"     "Had I read it?" She knew when I had,     Like the rest, I should dote upon "Molly;"     And "poor Mrs. Gaskell--how sad!"     "Like Browning?" "But so-so." His proof lay     Too deep for her frivolous mood.     That preferred your mere metrical souffl     To the stronger poetical food;     Yet at times he was good--"as a tonic:"     Was Tennyson writing just now?     And was this new poet Byronic,     And clever, and naughty, or how?     Then we trifled with concerts and croqut,     Then she daintily dusted her face;     Then she sprinkled herself with "Ess Bouquet,"     Fished out from the foregoing case;     And we chattered of Gassier and Grisi,     And voted Aunt Sally a bore;     Discussed if the tight rope were easy,     Or Chopin much harder than Spohr.     And oh! the odd things that she quoted,     With the prettiest possible look,     And the price of two buns that she noted     In the prettiest possible book;     While her talk like a musical rillet     Flashed on with the hours that flew,     And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill it     With just enough summer--for Two.     Till at last in her corner, peeping     From a nest of rugs and of furs,     With the white shut eyelids sleeping     On those dangerous looks of hers,     She seemed like a snow-drop breaking,     Not wholly alive nor dead,     But with one blind impulse making     To the sounds of the spring overhead;     And I watched in the lamplight's swerving     The shade of the down-dropt lid,     And the lip-line's delicate curving,     Where a slumbering smile lay hid,     Till I longed that, rather than sever,     The train should shriek into space,     And carry us onward--for ever,--     Me and that beautiful face.     But she suddenly woke in a fidget,     With fears she was "nearly at home,"     And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget,     Whom I mentally wished--well, at Rome;     Got out at the very next station,     Looking back with a merry Bon Soir,     Adding, too, to my utter vexation,     A surplus, unkind Au Revoir.     So left me to muse on her graces,     To dose and to muse, till I dreamed     That we sailed through the sunniest places     In a glorified galley, it seemed;     But the cabin was made of a carriage,     And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne,     And we split on a rock labelled MARRIAGE,     And I woke,--as cold as a stone.     And that's how I lost her--a jewel,     Incognita--one in a crowd,     Nor prudent enough to be cruel,     Nor worldly enough to be proud.     It was just a shut lid and its lashes,     Just a few hours in a train,     And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes     Longing to see her again.