A Winning Hand

“When are hearts trumps?” she coyly asked,

     In accents soft and low,

The while her eyes looked into mine

     Beneath the lamp’s soft glow.

I threw away my hand just then,

     And grasped her own sublime;

“Why hearts are trumps, or ought to be,”
I whispered, “all the time.”

c. Oct. 15, 1907