October--A Wood
"I know what you are going to say," she said,
And she stood up, looking uncommonly tall:
"You are going to the speak of the hectic fall,
And say you're sorry the summer's dead,
And no other summer was like it, you know,
And can I imagine what made it so.
Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.
"I know what you're going to say," she said:
"You are going to ask if I forget
That day in June when the woods were wet,
And you carried me"--here she drooped her head--
"Over the creek; you are going to say,
Do I remember that horrid day.
Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.
"I know what you are going to say," she said:
"You are going to say that since that time
You have rather tended to run to rhyme
And"--her clear glance fell, and her cheek grew red--
"And have I noticed your tone was queer.
Why, everybody has seen it here!
Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.
"I now what you are going to say," I said:
"You're going to say you've been much annoyed;
And I'm short of tact--you will say, devoid--
And I'm clumsy and awkward; and call me 'Ted';
And I bear abuse like a dear old lamb;
And you'll have me, anyway, just as I am.
Now aren't you, honestly?" "Ye-es," she said.
