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THE POET TO ONE WHO LOVES HIM. |
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 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
333
THE POET TO ONE WHO LOVES HIM.
Since far apart our paths must be
When thou to thine returnest,
What token shall I bring to thee
Of love divine and earnest?
When thou to thine returnest,
What token shall I bring to thee
Of love divine and earnest?
I hush within my heart of heart
All wish for word-expression;
Be mine, be thine a nobler part—
Our life be our confession.
All wish for word-expression;
Be mine, be thine a nobler part—
Our life be our confession.
Nor word nor look of mine betray
The love which is my glory;
And thou—serenely go thy way,
And hide thy dear heart's story.
The love which is my glory;
And thou—serenely go thy way,
And hide thy dear heart's story.
Nay, sweet, believe not life will be
Too dark, too stern a trial;
The love with which I circle thee
Shall need no cold denial.
Too dark, too stern a trial;
The love with which I circle thee
Shall need no cold denial.
334
And thou, each hour of thy young life,
In every graceful duty,
Shall feel it round thee, warmly rife
With fondness, truth, and beauty.
In every graceful duty,
Shall feel it round thee, warmly rife
With fondness, truth, and beauty.
I know thy child-like tenderness,
That pleads and needs protection;
I know thy guileless wish to bless
My cold life with affection.
That pleads and needs protection;
I know thy guileless wish to bless
My cold life with affection.
And all the more do I adore
The sweet reserve of virtue,
The graceful pride that o'er and o'er
I've pray'd may ne'er desert you.
The sweet reserve of virtue,
The graceful pride that o'er and o'er
I've pray'd may ne'er desert you.
For thou art that ethereal flower—
No more a fabled wonder—
That builds in air its azure bower,
And floats the star-light under.
No more a fabled wonder—
That builds in air its azure bower,
And floats the star-light under.
Too pure to touch our sinful earth,
Too human yet for heaven,
Halfway it has its glorious birth,
With no root to be riven.
Too human yet for heaven,
Halfway it has its glorious birth,
With no root to be riven.
335
A fairy winged, aerial rose,
The playmate of the air,
The Peri of the flowers it glows,
And floats in beauty there.
The playmate of the air,
The Peri of the flowers it glows,
And floats in beauty there.
And far from me the wild wish be
To woo to earth the treasure;
I ask not even a sigh from thee
To cloud thy Peri pleasure.
To woo to earth the treasure;
I ask not even a sigh from thee
To cloud thy Peri pleasure.
But let a life of noble aim,
Of high and calm devotion,
Be all the token thou wouldst claim—
Or I—of Love's emotion.
Of high and calm devotion,
Be all the token thou wouldst claim—
Or I—of Love's emotion.
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |