 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
MY ENEMY.
Ay, love did make my love of all things fair—
He combed and combed, as fine as threads of silk,
The leaves of daffodillies for her hair—
Her little hands compressed of curds of milk,
And set her in my path, and made her be,
From morn to eve, my sweetest enemy.
He combed and combed, as fine as threads of silk,
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Her little hands compressed of curds of milk,
And set her in my path, and made her be,
From morn to eve, my sweetest enemy.
He laid the leaves of roses in and out
From cheek to mouth, to dazzle me with light—
Round shoulder, throat, I dare not write about,
Or guess what place he got so pure a white;
But they were all composed to make her be
My pretty plague—my sweetest enemy.
From cheek to mouth, to dazzle me with light—
Round shoulder, throat, I dare not write about,
Or guess what place he got so pure a white;
But they were all composed to make her be
My pretty plague—my sweetest enemy.
He stole the music of the nightingale—
Of all best birds, the world of birds among,
And made such melodies as cannot fail
Of deadly work, to lie upon her tongue—
Built her a casement in the wall whence she
Might spread a snare of songs—sweet enemy.
Of all best birds, the world of birds among,
And made such melodies as cannot fail
Of deadly work, to lie upon her tongue—
Built her a casement in the wall whence she
Might spread a snare of songs—sweet enemy.
Her eyes! To know how I should name her eyes
Drives me about the world like one distraught—
An ever tender infinite surprise
Veiled, even as by their lids, with every thought
Shaped by my clumsy wits to make you see
How that she is my sweetest enemy.
Drives me about the world like one distraught—
An ever tender infinite surprise
Veiled, even as by their lids, with every thought
Shaped by my clumsy wits to make you see
How that she is my sweetest enemy.
I have no refuge from her any more.
If toward the house of sleep I take my flight,
'T is her white hand that turneth back the door,
Her arms that entertain me all the night,
So that her fatal charms do make her be,
Even in dreams, my sweetest enemy.
If toward the house of sleep I take my flight,
'T is her white hand that turneth back the door,
Her arms that entertain me all the night,
So that her fatal charms do make her be,
Even in dreams, my sweetest enemy.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |