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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348537" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Bush Study, A La Watteau</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">HE.<br>See the smoke-wreaths how they curl so lightly skyward<br>From the ivied cottage nestled in the trees:<br>Such a lovely spot—I really feel that I would<br>Be happy there with children on my knees.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SHE.<br>No, you wouldn’t. These are merely idle fancies<br>Of a gentleman much given to day-dreams.<br>These chimneys always smoke, and, then the chance is<br>You would have a scolding wife and babe that screams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HE.<br>Ah! but look! just there, above that lowly cottage,<br>Birds are flitting in the sunlight clear and pure;<br>And the three-score years and ten—man’s poor allottage—<br>Might be passed away with pleasure there, I’m sure.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SHE.<br>Now, pray listen, oh, vain wanderer from the city,<br>And look bravely up and meet my searching eyes:<br>Would you give up all your town life, bright and witty,<br>Just because the cottage smoke curls to the skies?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HE.<br>I regret to find you’re one of those young ladies—<br>Pet productions of this artificial age:<br>Rural solitude to you is simply Hades,<br>And your paradise the ballroom or the stage.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SHE.<br>Yes, forsooth! and why? Because, my airy dreamer,<br>I can use my eyes as well as gaily dance—<br>See the Husband, Wife, the Lover, Dupe and Schemer,<br>All whirling past and weaving a romance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HE.<br>You think, then, Miss, such dreadful social questions<br>Are like cards, designed to pass away the time;<br>Do you not perceive that all these pseudo-Christians<br>Are but moths that flutter round the candle Crime?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SHE.<br>At the play, too, where I oft with dear mamma go,<br>There’s the drama being acted in the boards;<br>And Othello, Desdemona, and Iago<br>In the boxes, p’raps, without the paint and swords.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HE.<br>Well, that may be, but the life of show and fashion<br>You so prize above the simple joys around,<br>Is all false; more noble manhood and true passion<br>In the daily lives of rustics may be found.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SHE.<br>Think you then that those who dwell in rural places<br>Are quite free from every evil thought and deed?<br>Pray speak unto the swain who hither paces<br>With slow steps, as though in pain, across the mead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HE.<br>If you will not sneer, I’ll ask him for his story;<br>But expect not that his daily life shall be<br>Full of famous deeds; he careth not for glory,<br>But lived by honest labour, pure and free.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SHE.<br>Speak on; speak! and let me hear this modern idyll<br>From the lips of yonder heavy-footed swain;—<br>By-the-bye, his wild, erratic sort of sidle<br>Seems to indicate that he the bowl doth drain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HE.<br>Hush—he’ll overhear….O tell me, gentle cottar,<br>Dwellest thou here remote from carking care and strife?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SUNDOWNER.<br>What’s that to you? Are you a bloated squatter?<br>Better clear, old man [hic] ’companied by your wife.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HE.<br>Thou mistakest me, thou toil-worn man and humble;<br>I own no lands where graze the peaceful sheep.<br>Thou art stirred with deep emotion, and dost mumble—<br>Speak up bravely, brother man, and do not weep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SUNDOWNER.<br>Hot to-day, guv’nor; let’s go and have a liquor;<br>Lady take anything?—Bless you I can pay—<br>Haven’t had one yet, and nothing makes me sicker<br>Than abstaining altogether such a day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sings<br>Shearing sheep is dry work,<br>Kissing girls is sly work;<br>But drinking deep is my work;<br>So, let’s drink, boys, drink!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HE.<br>Come, Mabel, come. He is worse than Turk or Bulgar,<br>And his presence doth the very air pollute.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SHE.<br>Well, I must confess he is a trifle vulgar;<br>But what you say now, my dreamer?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HE.<br>I am mute.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Arthur+Patchett+Martin">Arthur Patchett Martin</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348537" data-title="A Bush Study, A La Watteau de Arthur Patchett Martin" data-description="HE.
See the smoke-wreaths how they curl so lightly skyward
From the ivied cottage nestled in the trees:
Such a lovely spot—I really feel that I would
Be happy there with children on my knees.

SHE.
No, you wouldn’t. These are merely idle fanci..."></div>
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