 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
224
EDITH TO HAROLD.
Speak soft, and smile when you do speak, I pray,For though I seem as gentle as the moon
In her white bed of clouds, or thrice as gay
As any robin of the April woods,
You must not trust me wholly; I am like
Some mountain creature that will not be tamed,
But goes back to its nature when your hand
Caresses it most fondly. Even a look
May put between my heart and all the world
The heavy memory of my monstrous wrongs,
And make me hate you, sweetest, with the rest.
The fatal malady is in my blood,
And even when Death shall shear away the thread
That holds my body and my soul in one,
No flowers but poison ones will strike their roots
In my earthed ashes. 'T is a dreadful thought—
The last May grass on little Thyra's grave
Was full of violets—so bright and blue!
Nay, frown not, for the prohecy is true.
Look at me close, and see if in my eyes
Are not the half-reproachful, half-mad looks
Of beasts too sharply goaded—I do fear
The loosing of all fair humanities.
Tell me you love me, kiss my cheek, my mouth,
And talk about that meadow with the brook
Brimful of sleepy waters, over which
A milk-white heifer leaned her silver horns,
Wound bright with scarlet flowers, and where the sheep
Graze shepherdless, save when of fairest nights
Some honest rustic walks and counts his lambs,
So making pastime with his lady-love,
The starry lighting of whose golden hair
To his pleased eyes makes all the meadow shine.
Once, when we stood before the eastern gate
Of Hilda's castle, you did tell it me,
With your white fingers combing the long mane
Of your brown charger—dead in the last war.
It was a pretty picture, and the end
Was harmless, happy love. It gave my heart
For a full hour such pleasant comforting,
225
And feign to be the damsel by the brook;
For of my shepherd I could be the queen,
As, sweetest, Harold, I may not be yours.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |