 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
THE NECKLACE OF PEARLS.
He met her in the garden,
A bright and beauteous maid,
Who, grown at once a woman,
Was not of love afraid:
She loved, and could not help it,
Her heart went out to his,
And as he stooped to kiss her
She rose to meet his kiss.
A bright and beauteous maid,
Who, grown at once a woman,
Was not of love afraid:
She loved, and could not help it,
Her heart went out to his,
And as he stooped to kiss her
She rose to meet his kiss.
He kissed her in the garden,
And—was it what he said,
Or the shadow of the roses
That made her cheeks so red?
Her bosom rising, falling,
With new and strange delight,
The string of pearls upon it
Was not so white, so white.
And—was it what he said,
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That made her cheeks so red?
Her bosom rising, falling,
With new and strange delight,
The string of pearls upon it
Was not so white, so white.
He drew her down the garden,
He would not hear her “No,”
She must go if she loved him
Who loved her, loved her so:
They must go pluck the roses
And listen to the dove:
The dove was wooing, wooing,
As he was her—for love.
He would not hear her “No,”
She must go if she loved him
Who loved her, loved her so:
They must go pluck the roses
And listen to the dove:
The dove was wooing, wooing,
As he was her—for love.
He led her down the garden,
And while her arms were round
The neck she, parting, clung to,
She saw upon the ground
The string that held her necklace,
With not a pearl thereon:
The slender string was broken,
And all the pearls were gone.
And while her arms were round
The neck she, parting, clung to,
She saw upon the ground
The string that held her necklace,
With not a pearl thereon:
The slender string was broken,
And all the pearls were gone.
Then up and down the garden
She wandered with dismay,
And wondered where her pearls were,
And how they slipt away:
They nestled in her bosom
One little hour ago,
Before they plucked the roses,
And her tears began to flow.
She wandered with dismay,
And wondered where her pearls were,
And how they slipt away:
They nestled in her bosom
One little hour ago,
Before they plucked the roses,
And her tears began to flow.
So round and round the garden
She went with peering eyes:
O is not that the necklace
That shining yonder lies?
'Tis but a string of dew-drops
The wind has broken there,
Or the tears that she is shedding
That make her look more fair.
She went with peering eyes:
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That shining yonder lies?
'Tis but a string of dew-drops
The wind has broken there,
Or the tears that she is shedding
That make her look more fair.
Still round and round the garden
She hunted high and low,
In the red hearts of the roses,
The lily's breast of snow:
The thorns they pricked her fingers,
Her fingers bled and bled,
But her heart was bleeding faster—
O why was she not dead?
She hunted high and low,
In the red hearts of the roses,
The lily's breast of snow:
The thorns they pricked her fingers,
Her fingers bled and bled,
But her heart was bleeding faster—
O why was she not dead?
For she must leave the garden
And meet her mother's eye,
Who will perceive she sorrows,
And ask the reason why;
And she must meet her father,
Who, as she hangs her head,
Will miss the priceless necklace,
And wish that she were dead.
And meet her mother's eye,
Who will perceive she sorrows,
And ask the reason why;
And she must meet her father,
Who, as she hangs her head,
Will miss the priceless necklace,
And wish that she were dead.
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |