The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 87

FOUR WINDS

"Four winds blowing through the sky, You have seen poor maidens die, Tell me then what I shall do That my lover may be true."

Said the wind from out the south, "Lay no kiss upon his mouth,"

And the wind from out the west, "Wound the heart within his breast,"

And the wind from out the east, "Send him empty from the feast,"

And the wind from out the north, "In the tempest thrust him forth; When thou art more cruel than he, Then will Love be kind to thee."

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]

TO MANON As To His Choice Of Her

If I had chosen thee, thou shouldst have been A virgin proud, untamed, immaculate, Chaste as the morning star, a saint, a queen, Scarred by no wars, no violence of hate.

Thou shouldst have been of soul commensurate With thy fair body, brave and virtuous And kind and just; and if of poor estate, At least an honest woman for my house.

I would have had thee come of honored blood And honorable nurture. Thou shouldst bear Sons to my pride and daughters to my heart, And men should hold thee happy, wise, and good.

Lo, thou art none of this, but only fair, Yet must I love thee, dear, and as thou art.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840-1922]

CROWNED

You came to me bearing bright roses, Red like the wine of your heart; You twisted them into a garland To set me aside from the mart.

Red roses to crown me your lover, And I walked aureoled and apart.

Enslaved and encircled, I bore it, Proud token of my gift to you.

The petals waned paler, and shriveled, And dropped; and the thorns started through.

Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover, A diadem woven with rue.

Amy Lowell [1874-1925]

HEBE

I saw the twinkle of white feet, I saw the flash of robes descending; Before her ran an influence fleet, That bowed my heart like barley bending.

As, in bare fields, the searching bees Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, It led me on, by sweet degrees Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding.

Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates; With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me; The long-sought Secret's golden gates On musical hinges swung before me.

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp Thrilling with G.o.dhood; like a lover I sprang the proffered life to clasp;-- The beaker fell; the luck was over.

The Earth has drunk the vintage up; What boots it patch the goblet's splinters?

Can Summer fill the icy cup Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's?

O spendthrift haste! await the G.o.ds; Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience; Haste scatters on unthankful sods The immortal gift in vain libations.

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, And shuns the hands would seize upon her; Follow thy life, and she will sue To pour for thee the cup of honor.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

"JUSTINE, YOU LOVE ME NOT!"

"Helas! vous ne m'aimez pas."--Piron

I know, Justine, you speak me fair As often as we meet; And 'tis a luxury, I swear, To hear a voice so sweet; And yet it does not please me quite, The civil way you've got; For me you're something too polite-- Justine, you love me not!

I know Justine, you never scold At aught that I may do: If I am pa.s.sionate or cold, 'Tis all the same to you.

"A charming temper," say the men, "To smooth a husband's lot": I wish 'twere ruffled now and then-- Justine you love me not!

I know, Justine, you wear a smile As beaming as the sun; But who supposes all the while It s.h.i.+nes for only one?

Though azure skies are fair to see, A transient cloudy spot In yours would promise more to me-- Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, you make my name Your eulogistic theme, And say--if any chance to blame-- You hold me in esteem.

Such words, for all their kindly scope, Delight me not a jot; Just as you would have praised the Pope-- Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine--for I have heard What friendly voices tell-- You do not blush to say the word, "You like me pa.s.sing well"; And thus the fatal sound I hear That seals my lonely lot: There's nothing now to hope or fear-- Justine, you love me not!

John G.o.dfrey Saxe [1816-1887]

SNOWDROP

When, full of warm and eager love, I clasp you in my fond embrace, You gently push me back and say, "Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace."

You kiss me just as you would kiss Some woman friend you chanced to see; You call me "dearest."--All love's forms Are yours, not its reality.

Oh, Annie! cry, and storm, and rave!

Do anything with pa.s.sion in it!

Hate me an hour, and then turn round And love me truly, just one minute.

William Wetmore Story [1819-1895]