SENTIMENTAL STUFF
by: Eugene O'Neill (1888-1953)
- WROTE a
sonnet to her eyes,
- In terms Swinburnian and erotic;
- Poured out the burden of my sighs
- With language lurid and exotic--
- She did not heed.
-
- I wrote a ballad I deemed fair
- With sprithy play of silver rhyme
- To sing her glorious golden hair
- Aglow with sun in summer time--
- She did not hear.
-
- I wrote a soulful villanelle
- About the wonder of her mouth,
- Lips like the crimson flowers that dwell
- In forests of the tropic south--
- She made no sign.
-
- I wrote a musical rondeau
- To praise her roguish little nose,
- Dabbed at with powder, white as snow,
- Through which a freckle warmly glows--
- She would not see.
-
- I wrote a solemn, stately ode,
- Lauding her matchless symmetry,
- I thought that this might be a road
- To open up her heart to me--
- She spoke no word.
-
- Then in a feeble triolette,
- I told the keenness of her wit;
- A blush of anger o'er me crept
- I was so much ashamed of it
- --She fell for it--
- --And this is it--
- "What matters it if you are fair?
- I love you for your wit,
- Your mental poise, your wisdom rare,
- What matters it if you are fair?
- Beauty is fleeting, light as air
- I'll nought to do with it,
- What matters it if you are fair?
- I love you for your wit."
-
- She praised this assininity
- And scorned the good ones that I wrote,
- This bunch of femininity,
- On whom my fond affections dote--
- Has got my goat.
-
- She put my real ones on the pan,
- And gave my puerile one a puff,
- And said, "I'll love you if you'll can
- That horrid sentimental stuff--
- I've had enough."
"Sentimental Stuff" is
reprinted from the New London Telegraph, 28 October, 1912. |
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POEMS BY EUGENE O'NEILL |
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