Just imagine yourself seated 

on a shadowy terrace,

And beside you is a girl 

who to the beauty of all the 

beauties of all the ages is 

the undisputed heiress.

It is a summer evening at its 

most superb,

And the moonlight reminds 

you that To Love is an active 

verb,

And your hand clasps hers, 

which rests there without 

shrinking,

And after a silence fraught 

with romance you ask her 

what she is thinking,

And she starts and returns 

from the moon-washed 

distance to the shadowy

veranda,

And says, Oh I was 

wondering how many

bamboo shoots a day it 

takes to feed a baby Giant 

Panda.

Or you stand with her on a 

hilltop and gaze on a winter 

sunset,

And everything is as starkly 

beautiful as a page from 

Sigrid Undset,

And your arm goes around 

her waist and you make an 

avowal which for masterfully 

marshaled, emotional 

content might have been 

a page of Ouida’s or 

Thackeray’s,

And after a silence fraught 

with romance she says, I 

forgot to order the limes for 

the Daiquiris.

Or in a twilight drawing 

room you have just asked 

the most momentous of 

questions,

And after a silence fraught 

with romance she says, I 

think this little table would 

look better where that little 

table is, but then where 

would that little table go, 

have you any suggestions?

And that’s the way they go 

around hitting below our 

belts;

It isn’t that nothing is sacred 

to them, it’s just that, at 

the Sacred Moment they 

are always thinking of 

something else.