 | [Woman's love, in] The dew-drop |  |
278
WOMAN'S LOVE.
Woman should give a loving heart to man,
A free heart to the man that she loves best,
She cannot else be happy, nor can he
Who takes her to his bosom; she will lie
Unwillingly on it, thinking evermore,
Thinking of what she should not—of her love.
The heart, the faith, she murdered, will arise
An injured ghost, and haunt her till her death!
In feasts, and fasts, and even at her prayers,
And with her children round her—heavenly links
In the base earth-chain, binding her poor heart
To what it cannot love—she will be sad,
And always pondering o'er her misery!
A free heart to the man that she loves best,
She cannot else be happy, nor can he
Who takes her to his bosom; she will lie
Unwillingly on it, thinking evermore,
Thinking of what she should not—of her love.
The heart, the faith, she murdered, will arise
An injured ghost, and haunt her till her death!
In feasts, and fasts, and even at her prayers,
And with her children round her—heavenly links
In the base earth-chain, binding her poor heart
To what it cannot love—she will be sad,
And always pondering o'er her misery!
Ah! Henry, could you see what I have borne
And bear for you, you would not chide me so;
I never make a show of love to you;
If you were quick at reading woman's heart,
You might have guessed it—others have ere this;
I'm sure my eyes must brighten when you come,
I love to see you so, and when I sing,
And they are by—we are not oft alone—
My voice is trembling, and when you depart,
I think I must look sad, I always feel so.
Alas! I think of you the live-long day,
Plying my needle by the little stand,
And wish that we had never, never met,
Or I was dead, or you were married off,—
But that would kill me. I lay down my work,
And take the lute you gave me, but the strings
Seem harsh and tuneless, or I cannot play;
I sing the favourite airs, the melodies,
The sweet old tunes we loved, and weep aloud.
I think, and think, my head goes turning round,
And throbs with pain, and I am sick and dizzy,
And my heart beats so, that I fear I'll die!
I sought forgetfulness, and tried to read
A chapter in the Holy Book to-day:
I could not see a line, I only read
The solemn sonnets that you sent to me.
I cannot pray as I was used to do,
For you come in between me and the Lord!
And, kneeling down to frame a supplication,
My wits are wandering, and I sob your name!
And nights, when I am lying on my bed,
(I hope such thoughts are not unmaidenly?)
I think of you, and fall asleep, and dream
I am your wedded wife, your happy wife!—
I wonder if you ever think of me!
Men never love like women; they are colder,
More calculating; they hold back their hearts
With iron hands, and will not let them go.
We give ours frankly—we are silly for it;
A great gift, like the deep love of a woman,
Loses its value when 'tis freely given.
She should be chary of it, keeping it
Locked in her soul away from prying eyes;
She should be firm and coy, and stand in awe,
Guarding her honour, and when she is won,
She should bestow her heart in burning tears!
And bear for you, you would not chide me so;
I never make a show of love to you;
If you were quick at reading woman's heart,
You might have guessed it—others have ere this;
279
I love to see you so, and when I sing,
And they are by—we are not oft alone—
My voice is trembling, and when you depart,
I think I must look sad, I always feel so.
Alas! I think of you the live-long day,
Plying my needle by the little stand,
And wish that we had never, never met,
Or I was dead, or you were married off,—
But that would kill me. I lay down my work,
And take the lute you gave me, but the strings
Seem harsh and tuneless, or I cannot play;
I sing the favourite airs, the melodies,
The sweet old tunes we loved, and weep aloud.
I think, and think, my head goes turning round,
And throbs with pain, and I am sick and dizzy,
And my heart beats so, that I fear I'll die!
I sought forgetfulness, and tried to read
A chapter in the Holy Book to-day:
I could not see a line, I only read
The solemn sonnets that you sent to me.
I cannot pray as I was used to do,
For you come in between me and the Lord!
And, kneeling down to frame a supplication,
My wits are wandering, and I sob your name!
And nights, when I am lying on my bed,
(I hope such thoughts are not unmaidenly?)
280
I am your wedded wife, your happy wife!—
I wonder if you ever think of me!
Men never love like women; they are colder,
More calculating; they hold back their hearts
With iron hands, and will not let them go.
We give ours frankly—we are silly for it;
A great gift, like the deep love of a woman,
Loses its value when 'tis freely given.
She should be chary of it, keeping it
Locked in her soul away from prying eyes;
She should be firm and coy, and stand in awe,
Guarding her honour, and when she is won,
She should bestow her heart in burning tears!
| [Woman's love, in] The dew-drop | |