From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, February 17, 1915. By Joyce Kilmer.
Her lips’ remark was, “Oh, you kid!”
Her soul spoke thus (I know it did):
“O King of realms of endless joy,
My own, my golden grocer’s boy.
“I am a princess forced to dwell
Within a lonely kitchen cell.
“While you go dashing through the land
With loveliness on every hand,
“Your whistle strikes my eager ears
Like music of the choiring spheres.
“The mighty earth grows faint and reels
Beneath your thundering wagon wheels.
“How keenly, perilously sweet
To cling upon that swaying seat!
“How happy she who by your side
May share the splendors of that ride!
“Ah, if you will not take my hand
And bear me off across the land,
“Then, traveler from Arcady,
Remain a while and comfort me.
“What other maiden can you find
So young and delicate and kind?”
Her lips’ remark was, “Oh, you kid!”
Her soul spoke thus (I know it did).
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