The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 73

CANDOR October--A Wood

I know what you're going to say," she said, And she stood up, looking uncommonly tall: "You are going to speak of the hectic fall, And say you're sorry the summer's dead, And no other summer was like it, you know, And can I imagine what made it so.

Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.

"I know what you're going to say," she said: "You are going to ask if I forget That day in June when the woods were wet, And you carried me"--here she drooped her head-- "Over the creek; you are going to say, Do I remember that horrid day.

Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.

"I know what you're going to say," she said: "You are going to say that since that time You have rather tended to run to rhyme, And"--her clear glance fell, and her cheek grew red-- "And have I noticed your tone was queer.

Why, everybody has seen it here!

Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.

"I know what you're going to say," I said: "You're going to say you've been much annoyed; And I'm short of tact--you will say, devoid-- And I'm clumsy and awkward; and call me Ted; And I bear abuse like a dear old lamb; And you'll have me, anyway, just as I am.

Now aren't you, honestly?" "Ye-es," she said.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]

"DO YOU REMEMBER"

Do you remember when you heard My lips breathe love's first faltering word?

You do, sweet--don't you?

When, having wandered all the day, Linked arm in arm, I dared to say, "You'll love me--won't you?"

And when you blushed and could not speak, I fondly kissed your glowing cheek, Did that affront you?

Oh, surely not--your eye expressed No wrath--but said, perhaps in jest, "You'll love me--won't you?"

I'm sure my eyes replied, "I will."

And you believe that promise still, You do, sweet--don't you?

Yes, yes! when age has made our eyes Unfit for questions or replies, You'll love me--won't you?

Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]

BECAUSE

Sweet Nea!--for your lovely sake I weave these rambling numbers, Because I've lain an hour awake, And can't compose my slumbers; Because your beauty's gentle light Is round my pillow beaming, And flings, I know not why, to-night, Some witchery o'er my dreaming!

Because we've pa.s.sed some joyous days, And danced some merry dances; Because we love old Beaumont's plays, And old Froissart's romances!

Because whene'er I hear your words Some pleasant feeling lingers; Because I think your heart has cords That vibrate to your fingers.

Because you've got those long, soft curls, I've sworn should deck my G.o.ddess; Because you're not, like other girls, All bustle blush, and bodice!

Because your eyes are deep and blue, Your fingers long and rosy; Because a little child and you Would make one's home so cosy!

Because your little tiny nose Turns up so pert and funny; Because I know you choose your beaux More for their mirth than money; Because I think you'd rather twirl A waltz, with me to guide you, Than talk small nonsense with an earl, And a coronet beside you!

Because you don't object to walk, And are not given to fainting; Because you have not learned to talk Of flowers, and Poonah-painting; Because I think you'd scarce refuse To sew one on a b.u.t.ton; Because I know you sometimes choose To dine on simple mutton!

Because I think I'm just so weak As, some of those fine morrows, To ask you if you'll let me speak My story--and my sorrows; Because the rest's a simple thing, A matter quickly over A church--a priest--a sigh--a ring-- And a chaise-and-four to Dover.

Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883]

LOVE AND AGE From "Gryll Grange"

I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four; When garlands weaving, flower-b.a.l.l.s throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more.

Through groves and meads, o'er gra.s.s and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wandered hand in hand together; But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden, They glided joyously along; And I did love you very dearly-- How dearly, words want power to show; I thought your heart was touched as nearly; But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year, And many a splendid circle found you The center of its glittering sphere.

I saw you then, first vows forsaking, On rank and wealth, your hand bestow; O, then, I thought my heart was breaking,-- But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another: No cause she gave me to repine; And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine.

My own young flock, in fair progression, Made up a pleasant Christmas row: My joy in them was past expression;-- But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely, You dwelt in fas.h.i.+on's brightest blaze; My earthly lot was far more homely; But I too had my festal days.

No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christened:-- But that was twenty years ago.

Time pa.s.sed. My eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire gray; One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flowered meads to play.

In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure,-- And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impa.s.sioned blindness Has pa.s.sed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night.

The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago.

Thomas Love Peac.o.c.k [1785-1866]

TO HELEN

If wandering in a wizard's car Through yon blue ether, I were able To fas.h.i.+on of a little star A taper for my Helen's table;-- "What then?" she asks me with a laugh-- Why, then, with all heaven's l.u.s.ter glowing, It would not gild her path with half The light her love o'er mine is throwing!

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]

AT THE CHURCH GATE From "Pendennis"