 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
LOVE.
To love, what is it? 'Tis to shed
Fond woman's little all of light
On rainbow clouds, whose tints are fled
Ere scarce they meet the raptured sight;
To yield her youthful heart to one,
To live on earth for him alone,
And feel 'twere almost grief to bear
E'en bliss unless he, too, might share.
Fond woman's little all of light
On rainbow clouds, whose tints are fled
Ere scarce they meet the raptured sight;
To yield her youthful heart to one,
To live on earth for him alone,
And feel 'twere almost grief to bear
E'en bliss unless he, too, might share.
To give to one her every thought,
And feel that even though bereft
Of every joy on earth, 'twere nought,
So the wide storm that dear one left;
To know that she to him has given
The worship which was due to Heaven—
Yet in his love to find such bliss
She asks no other heaven than this.
And feel that even though bereft
Of every joy on earth, 'twere nought,
So the wide storm that dear one left;
To know that she to him has given
The worship which was due to Heaven—
Yet in his love to find such bliss
She asks no other heaven than this.
95
Vain man may talk of woman's guile,
And curse the hour he learned to prize
The magic of her sunny smile,
And drink the light of her sweet eyes.
But timid woman may not speak
The wrongs that pale her tender cheek;
No, deep within her heart they lie—
What matters it? she can but die.
And curse the hour he learned to prize
The magic of her sunny smile,
And drink the light of her sweet eyes.
But timid woman may not speak
The wrongs that pale her tender cheek;
No, deep within her heart they lie—
What matters it? she can but die.
Full many a cheek has lost its bloom,
And many a brilliant eye grown dim;
Man heeds it not—the silent tomb
Soon shrouds the heart that broke for him.
When first he was allowed to sip
The honey-dew from woman's lip,
And knew that it was all his own,
Its greatest charm for him was gone.
And many a brilliant eye grown dim;
Man heeds it not—the silent tomb
Soon shrouds the heart that broke for him.
When first he was allowed to sip
The honey-dew from woman's lip,
And knew that it was all his own,
Its greatest charm for him was gone.
O woman's love is a gentle light,
That sheds its beams on hope's young bowers,
Man's is the fell sirocco's blight,
That blasts the fairest, sweetest flowers;
Yet, though the buds of hope are gone,
That steady light will still shine on,
Shine on, despite of grief and gloom,
Like sunbeams o'er a mouldering tomb.
That sheds its beams on hope's young bowers,
Man's is the fell sirocco's blight,
That blasts the fairest, sweetest flowers;
Yet, though the buds of hope are gone,
That steady light will still shine on,
Shine on, despite of grief and gloom,
Like sunbeams o'er a mouldering tomb.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |