 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
72
LOVE'S REMONSTRANCE.
I
What! for a word—an idle word?And more in jest than earnest spoken?
Were I to note each breath I heard
My heart would soon be changed—or broken!
'Tis not when words are sweetest said,
Love's living flower blooms there to meet us;
The flower of love may still be dead,
Although its fragrance seem to greet us!
Then weigh not thou a word so slight,
Nor keep thy gentle bosom grieving;
The tongue that finds things ever right,
Believe me, love, 's a tongue deceiving.
II
Oh, if my heart had sought thee less,Mine eyes loved less to wander round thee,
That word of wounded tenderness—
That hasty word had never found thee.
The dew that seeks the Sun's fond gaze,
His golden lips in gladness beaming;
Meets death within his smiling rays—
His gilded fondness is but seeming!
Then weigh not thou a word so slight
Nor keep thy gentle bosom grieving;
The tongue that finds things ever right,
Believe me, love, 's a tongue deceiving.
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