"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 passed 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 goddess; 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 button; 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-balls throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more. Through groves and meads, o'er grass 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 fashion'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 passed. 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 impassioned blindness Has passed 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 Peacock [1785-1866]
TO HELEN
If wandering in a wizard's car Through yon blue ether, I were able To fashion 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 luster 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"
Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her.
The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming; They've hushed the Minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell; She's coming, she's coming!
My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; She comes - she's here - she's past! May heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturbed, fair Saint! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait, And see, through heaven's gate, Angels within it.
William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]
MABEL, IN NEW HAMPSHIRE
Fairest of the fairest, rival of the rose, That is Mabel of the Hills, as everybody knows.
Do you ask me near what stream this sweet floweret grows? That's an ignorant question, sir, as everybody knows.
Ask you what her age is, reckoned as time goes? Just the age of beauty, as everybody knows.
Is she tall as Rosalind, standing on her toes? She is just the perfect height, as everybody knows.
What's the color of her eyes, when they ope or close? Just the color they should be, as everybody knows.
Is she lovelier dancing, or resting in repose? Both are radiant pictures, as everybody knows.
Do her ships go sailing on every wind that blows? She is richer far than that, as everybody knows.
Has she scores of lovers, heaps of bleeding beaux? That question's quite superfluous, as everybody knows.
I could tell you something, if I only chose! - But what's the use of telling what everybody knows?
James Thomas Fields [1816-1881]
TOUJOURS AMOUR
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, At what age does Love begin? Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen, But a miracle of sweets, Soft approaches, sly retreats, Show the little archer there, Hidden in your pretty hair; When didst learn a heart to win? Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!
"Oh!" the rosy lips reply, "I can't tell you if I try. 'Tis so long I can't remember: Ask some younger lass than I!"
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow? Care you still soft hands to press, Bonny heads to smooth and bless? When does Love give up the chase? Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!
"Ah!" the wise old lips reply, "Youth may pass and strength may die; But of Love I can't foretoken: Ask some older sage than I!"
Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]
THE DOORSTEP
The conference-meeting through at last, We boys around the vestry waited To see the girls come tripping past, Like snow-birds willing to be mated.
Not braver he that leaps the wall By level musket-flashes bitten, Than I, that stepped before them all Who longed to see me get the mitten.
But no! she blushed and took my arm: We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lovers' by-way.
I can't remember what we said, - 'Twas nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory.
The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, Her face with youth and health was beaming.
The little hand outside her muff (O sculptor! if you could but mold it) So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it.
To have her with me there alone, - 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended; At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.
The old folks, too, were almost home: Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, We heard the voices nearer come, Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.
She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned!" dissembled; But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled.