As I sit at my desk by the window, when the garden with dew is wet,
On the morning incense rises the breath of the mignonette,
Laden with tender memories of thirty years ago,
When she gave me her worthless promise, and we loved each other so,
Till her tough old worldly mother let her maiden charms be sold
To a miser, as hard and yellow as his hoard of shining gold.
As in Central Park I met them on their cheerful morning ride,
As she snarled at her henpecked husband who was crouching by her side,
I thought in the dust of the pathway, "I have the best of you yet!"
Far better the dream of a fadeless love in the breath of the mignonette,
And little Alice and Mabel, and the children that might have been,
Come dancing out on the paper at a twirl of the magic pen,