My little love, do you remember,
Ere we were grown so sadly wise,
Those evenings in the bleak December,
Curtained warm from the snowy weather,
When you and I played chess together.
Checkmated by each other’s eyes?
Ah! still I see your soft white hand
Hovering warm o’er Queen or Knight;
Brave Pawns in valient battle stand;
The double Castles guard the wings;
The Bishop, bent on distant things,
Moves, sliding, through the fight.
Our fingers touch; our glances meet,
And falter; falls your golden hair
Against my cheek; your bosom sweet
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen
Rides slow, her soldiery all between,
And checks me unaware.
Ah me! the little battle’s done:
Dispersed is all its chivalry.
Full many a move, since then, have we
‘Mid Life’s perplexing chequers made,
And many a game with Fortune played;–
What is it we have won?
This, this at least,–if this alone:
That never, never, never more,
As in those old still nights of yore
(Ere we were grown so sadly wise),
Can you and I shut out the skies,
Shut out the world and wintry weather,
And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes,
Play chess, as then we played together!
(Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton)
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