Mademoiselle

There are words that will conjure a smile or a tear,
Or cause e'en the strongest to quake;
One word, perhaps secretly breathed in his ear,
Can keep a dictator awake;
But of words that are lovely, and words that are lyrical,
There is one that to me is a marvel, a miracle—
One word in my mind like a tinkling bell:
The simple, sweet title of "Mademoiselle"

"Senorita" has charm, when the speaker is firm on
The way he pronounces the name,
And "Fraulein" is nice, when it's said by a German;
But "Miss"—why, the thing is a shame!
And after some passion, a promise, and kisses,
The poor "Miss" becomes an uninteresting "Mrs."!
Now in French—what devotion's required to compel
You to give up the title of "Mademoiselle"?

(Oh! To hear the church-bell ringing out like a knell
On your claim, lost for ever, to "Mademoiselle"!)
Then hey! for a mansion, and ho! a Larousse!
And a batch of irregular verbs!
Though the tongue is absurd, and the grammar abstruse,
There's a wierd subtle power that disturbs:
An intoxication, a longing, a pain,
A feeling I cannot express or explain,
A witchery, rapture, enchantment, or spell,
In the mystical music of "Mademoiselle."

And though, on a cold, unimpassioned analysis,
Beauty is not hard to find
In your Gwendolines, Gladyses, Gertrudes and Alices,
Away! for I've made up my mind;
And none of your dances, your pictures and parties,
Will ever win me from the place where my heart is:
Afar on the Loire with my dazzling belle,
My lovely, poetical Mademoiselle!

—H. W. G.