A lover's diary :: :: University of Virginia Library

Say, do you love me as in the olden
Time so far away,
When the light o' my hair was golden
As the light o' the May?
Charley, my man of men,
Do you love me now, as when
Earth, to meet the heaven above it,
Seemed with the mist to rise,
And we told each other of it,
Talking with our eyes?

All the horns of the winds a-blowing
Made the warm wood sweet,

230

And the flowers to see our wooing
Hid in the grass at our feet,
When by the brook, so clear,
We sat,—do you mind, my dear?—
How the deep-worn path of the cattle
Lay across its trace,
And with tags of berry and nettle
Made a star in its face?

How the vale, to our troth agreeing,
Shone with light new-won,
Like a cloud that is flushed with being
Confidant of the Sun.
Charley, my man of men,
Do you love me now as then?
Winter cometh, so sadly whirling
All my bloom away,
And the light o' my hair is not, my darling,
Like the light o' the May.

231

[II. We have been lovers now, my dear]

We have been lovers now, my dear,
It matters nothing to say how long,
But still at the coming round o' the year
I make for my pleasure a little song;
And thus of my love I sing, my dear,—
So much the more by a year, by a year.

And still as I see the day depart,
And hear the bat at my window flit,
I sing the little song to my heart,
With just a change at the close of it;
And thus of my love I sing alway,—
So much the more by a day, by a day.

When in the morning I see the skies
Breaking into a gracious glow,

232

I say you are not my sweetheart's eyes,
Your brightness cannot mislead me so;
And I sing of my love in the rising light,—
So much the more by a night, by a night.

Both at the year's sweet dawn and close,
When the moon is filling, or fading away,
Every day, as it comes and goes,
And every hour of every day,
My little song I repeat and repeat,—
So much the more by an hour, my sweet!

233

III.
CHARITY.

Sweetly we live, my wife and I,
Sweetly, all the time,
As a May rose in her house of leaves,
Or a poet in his rhyme.

Oft in her pale and quiet cheeks
A dash of red doth show
Her heart is fluttering like a wheel
In the wave of love below.

234

I call my good wife Charity,
And she blushes at the name,
Though she gave the light of her hair and eyes
To our baby, when it came.

Sweetly we live,—her gentle brows
Know not the way to frown,
And I never see that her head is gray,
And her shoulders stooping down.

235

[IV. The clouds in many a windy rack]

The clouds in many a windy rack
Are sailing east and west,
And sober suns are bringing back
The days I love the best.

The poet, as he will, may go
To Summer's golden prime,
And set the roses in a row
Along his fragrant rhyme;

But as for me, I sing the praise
Of fading flowers and trees,
For to my mind the sweetest days
Of all the year are these:—

236

When stubbly hills and hazy skies
Proclaim the harvest done,
And Labor wipes his brow, and lies
A-dreaming in the sun,—

And idly hangs the spider on
Her broken silver stair,
And ghosts of thistles, dead and gone,
Slide slow along the air,—

Where all is still, unless perhaps
The cricket makes ado,
Or when the dry-billed heron snaps
Some brittle reed in two,—

Or school-boy tramples through the burs
His tangled path to keep,
Or ripe mast, rustling downward, stirs
The shadows from their sleep.

237

Ay, he that wills it so may praise
The lilies and the bees;
But as for me, the sweetest days
Of all the year are these.

My darling, in the woodland glen
One hour with me apart,
And let us walk and talk as when
I gave you all my heart.

Ah! wrap you with your veil so thin,
And let us wander slow
To that delicious bower, wherein
We courted, long ago.

Where dying violets scent the air,
And faint the ground-stars burn;
And where I gave my heart, and where
You gave your heart in turn.

238

We had a quarrel—do you mind?—
About the daisies' eyes;
Whether they closed because the wind
Was singing lullabies.

And you said Yes, and I said No,
And you got vexed and cried;
At that I gave it up, and lo!
You took the other side.

And you said No, and I said Yes;
The bosoms of the flowers
Were sensitive no whit the less,
Nor tender less than ours.

And you, as I remember yet,
Said that might well be true,
If you against them only set
My tenderness for you.

239

And I said—being sorely stung
That you my love should slight—
A woman always had a tongue
To make the wrong seem right!

So then your brows you darkly bent,
And killed me with a frown;
And I grew softly penitent,
And to my knees went down;

And where that willow of the glen
Shut out the insolent light,
I took you in my arms, and then
I kissed you just for spite!

Ay, just for very spite, I said,
But when your sweet cheek grew
So painfully and proudly red,
I spoke the truth to you;

240

And, brushing from your face the tear,
You gave me back my kiss,
Nor have we quarrelled once, my dear,
From that glad day to this.

Therefore I leave who will to praise
The lilies and the bees,
For, love of mine, the sweetest days
Of all the year are these.