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 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
103
Her face!
It must have been her face,—
No other one was ever half so fair,—
No other head e'er bent with such meek grace
Beneath that weight of beautiful blonde hair.
In a carriage on the street of the town,
Where I had strayed in walking from the bay,
Just as the sun was going down,
Shielding her sight from his latest ray,
She sat, and scanned with eager eye
The faces of the passers-by.
Whom was she looking for? Not me—
Yet what wild purpose can it be
That tempted her to this wild land?
—I marked that on her lifted hand
The diamonds no longer shine
Of the ring that meant, not mine—not mine!
It must have been her face,—
No other one was ever half so fair,—
No other head e'er bent with such meek grace
Beneath that weight of beautiful blonde hair.
In a carriage on the street of the town,
Where I had strayed in walking from the bay,
Just as the sun was going down,
Shielding her sight from his latest ray,
She sat, and scanned with eager eye
The faces of the passers-by.
Whom was she looking for? Not me—
Yet what wild purpose can it be
That tempted her to this wild land?
—I marked that on her lifted hand
The diamonds no longer shine
Of the ring that meant, not mine—not mine!
Ah fool—fool—fool! crawl back to thy den,
Like a wounded beast as thou art, again;
Whosever she be, not thine—not thine!
Like a wounded beast as thou art, again;
Whosever she be, not thine—not thine!
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |