 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
250
LOVE.
When daffodils began to blow,
And apple blossoms thick to snow
Upon the brown and breaking mould—
'T was in the spring—we kissed and sighed
And loved, and heaven and earth defied,
We were so young and bold.
And apple blossoms thick to snow
Upon the brown and breaking mould—
'T was in the spring—we kissed and sighed
And loved, and heaven and earth defied,
We were so young and bold.
The fluttering bob-link dropped his song,
The first young swallow curved along,
The daisy stared in sturdy pride,
When loitering on we plucked the flowers,
But dared not own those thoughts of ours,
Which yet we could not hide.
The first young swallow curved along,
The daisy stared in sturdy pride,
When loitering on we plucked the flowers,
But dared not own those thoughts of ours,
Which yet we could not hide.
Tiptoe you bent the lilac spray
And shook its rain of dew away
And reached it to me with a smile:
“Smell that, how full of spring it is”—
'T is now as full of memories
As 't was of dew erewhile.
And shook its rain of dew away
And reached it to me with a smile:
“Smell that, how full of spring it is”—
'T is now as full of memories
As 't was of dew erewhile.
Your hand I took, to help you down
The broken wall, from stone to stone,
Across the shallow bubbling brook.
Ah! what a thrill went from that palm,
That would not let my blood be calm,
And through my pulses shook.
The broken wall, from stone to stone,
Across the shallow bubbling brook.
251
That would not let my blood be calm,
And through my pulses shook.
Often our eyes met as we turned,
And both our cheeks with passion burned,
And both our hearts grew riotous,
Till, as we sat beneath the grove,
I kissed you—whispering, “we love”—
As thus I do—and thus.
And both our cheeks with passion burned,
And both our hearts grew riotous,
Till, as we sat beneath the grove,
I kissed you—whispering, “we love”—
As thus I do—and thus.
When passion had found utterance,
Our frightened hearts began to glance
Into the Future's every day;
And how shall we our love conceal,
Or dare our passion to reveal—
“We are too young,” they'll say.
Our frightened hearts began to glance
Into the Future's every day;
And how shall we our love conceal,
Or dare our passion to reveal—
“We are too young,” they'll say.
Alas! we are not now too young,
Yet love to us hath safely clung,
Despite of sorrow, years, and care—
But ah! we have not what we had,
We cannot be so free, so glad,
So foolish as we were.
Yet love to us hath safely clung,
Despite of sorrow, years, and care—
But ah! we have not what we had,
We cannot be so free, so glad,
So foolish as we were.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |