Explore "To Myrtilla" by Franklin P. Adams on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Twelve fleeting years ago, my Myrt, / (_Eheu fugaces! _ maybe more) / I wrote of the directoire skirt / You wore.
Ten years ago, Myrtilla mine, / The hobble skirt engaged my pen.
That was, I calculate, in Nine- / Teen Ten.
The polo coat, the feathered lid, / The phony furs of yesterfall, / The current shoe -- I tried to kid / Them all.
Vain every vitriolic bit, / Silly all my sulphuric song.
Rube Goldberg said a bookful; it / 'S all wrong.
Bitter the words I used to fling, / But you, despite my angriest Note, / Were never swayed by anything / I wrote.
So I surrender. I am beat.
And, though the admission rather girds, / In any garb you're just too sweet / For words.