 | The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien |  |
118
STRAWBERRIES.
I.
The garden was filled with odorsFrom jasmine and heliotrope,
And the tender moss-rose, muffled
In its beautiful velvet cope;
White currants, like beads of amber,
Strung upon sea-green silk,
Mingled their spicy clusters
With snowberries white as milk.
II.
I watched her plucking the strawberries,And bending over the bank,
Where the luscious rubies lay hiding,
As if from her search they shrank;
And when she bit them, she opened
Lips ripe and red as they,—
Ah! if I had been the strawberries,
I would not have hidden away.
III.
‘Are you not fond of strawberries?Why don't you pluck and eat?
See, here is a noble fellow,
Juicy, and red, and sweet.
Don't stand there looking so solemn,
As if you thought 't was a sin
To eat of such delicate morsels,
But open your mouth and begin.’
119
IV.
‘Ah! Imogen, dear,’ I answered,‘I care for no fruit but one:
'T is as ripe and red as this berry,
And as full of the blood of the sun.
But you selfishly hold it from me,
Nor offer me even a part.’
‘What is this fruit?’ she questioned.
‘This fruit,’ I said, ‘is your heart!’
V.
The strawberry dropped from her fingers,And she stretched out her little hand,
And I knew that, instead of the fruit, it held
The sweetest heart in the land.
So we left the strawberries lying
In their shadowy leaves that day,
And silently walked in the garden,
While the long hours stole away.
| The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien | |