 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
258
AN ENGLISH HUSBAND TO HIS ITALIAN WIFE.
What a constant jealousy gnaws your heart!
It tires me out; day after day
Some little worry from nothing you start—
Something is hidden in what I say,
Something is hidden in what I do;
That heart of yours is never still,
It cannot be sure that I am true,
But spies and pries about for ill.
It tires me out; day after day
Some little worry from nothing you start—
Something is hidden in what I say,
Something is hidden in what I do;
That heart of yours is never still,
It cannot be sure that I am true,
But spies and pries about for ill.
Frankly I speak the whole of my mind
Once for all—let it serve or not:
I am not one of that showy kind,
Fair outside with an inward rot.
I love you! will not that suffice?
No! I must say it again and again,
And embroider it over with flatteries,
Or all I have said and done is vain.
Once for all—let it serve or not:
I am not one of that showy kind,
Fair outside with an inward rot.
I love you! will not that suffice?
No! I must say it again and again,
And embroider it over with flatteries,
Or all I have said and done is vain.
Trust me! trust my simple love!
If you suspect me, that love will die.
I cannot bear to be forced to prove
Every moment its honesty.
Ah! you say, I'm so still and cold!
Well! I cannot be other than what I am;
I cannot squander my lump of gold
As I could a little tinsel sham.
If you suspect me, that love will die.
I cannot bear to be forced to prove
Every moment its honesty.
Ah! you say, I'm so still and cold!
259
I cannot squander my lump of gold
As I could a little tinsel sham.
You your jewels must always wear;
What is their use if they are not shown?
I keep mine with a miser's care
And love to count them over alone.
I cannot abide that the world should observe.
What it thinks is nothing to me;
I was born with a sense of reserve
That is shocked by love's publicity.
What is their use if they are not shown?
I keep mine with a miser's care
And love to count them over alone.
I cannot abide that the world should observe.
What it thinks is nothing to me;
I was born with a sense of reserve
That is shocked by love's publicity.
You have a richer heart, if you will,
That scatters about its wide largess;
Your love a keeping like mine would kill,—
All that you feel you must express.
Your love seeks for the light and sun,
And gives its perfume to every breeze;
The bees get its honey—every one—
Its beauty whoever passes sees.
That scatters about its wide largess;
Your love a keeping like mine would kill,—
All that you feel you must express.
Your love seeks for the light and sun,
And gives its perfume to every breeze;
The bees get its honey—every one—
Its beauty whoever passes sees.
Mine, like a well, is still and deep:
Cold, you say it is, like a well;
But though like a brook it will not leap
And joy forever one tale to tell,
It still is real; and when the year
Hath silenced the brook with its shallow laugh
The well's cool waters will still be clear,
Where those who trusted may surely quaff.
Cold, you say it is, like a well;
But though like a brook it will not leap
And joy forever one tale to tell,
It still is real; and when the year
Hath silenced the brook with its shallow laugh
The well's cool waters will still be clear,
Where those who trusted may surely quaff.
260
I cannot, like Sarto, publish your face
In every Madonna, Sibyl, and Saint,
Or praise to the world your beauty and grace
In a thousand sonnets sweet and faint.
But this is the head's work more than the heart's:
Skill and genius they show, no doubt;
But the painter and poet may give to their Arts
What they leave their lady, perhaps, without.
In every Madonna, Sibyl, and Saint,
Or praise to the world your beauty and grace
In a thousand sonnets sweet and faint.
But this is the head's work more than the heart's:
Skill and genius they show, no doubt;
But the painter and poet may give to their Arts
What they leave their lady, perhaps, without.
Trust me, dear, with your eyes so black
And full of passion,—these eyes of blue,
Though your excess of expression they lack,
Are not the less sincere and true.
I cannot fondle you every hour
With many a pretty and gallant phrase,
Rain out my love as a cloud its shower,—
But trust me, and leave me my English ways.
And full of passion,—these eyes of blue,
Though your excess of expression they lack,
Are not the less sincere and true.
I cannot fondle you every hour
With many a pretty and gallant phrase,
Rain out my love as a cloud its shower,—
But trust me, and leave me my English ways.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |