 | Poems |  |
65
SWEETHEART.
O! this love of mine!
Never artist's dream
Was as fair as she:
Jetty locks, that seem
Glossy as can be—
Night before the day
Hath streaked it through with gray.
Never artist's dream
Was as fair as she:
Jetty locks, that seem
Glossy as can be—
Night before the day
Hath streaked it through with gray.
O! this love of mine!
Brow as white as sands
On a tropic shore;
Eyes as deep as seas
And darker than before
Dawn hath turned them blue;
Cheeks of richest hue,
Pink as pinkest shell
That ever mermaid bore
From enchanted lands
Home where she did dwell.
Sometimes, if I please
That she blossom more,
Her beauty is so fine—
Rosy as red wine.
Brow as white as sands
On a tropic shore;
Eyes as deep as seas
And darker than before
Dawn hath turned them blue;
Cheeks of richest hue,
Pink as pinkest shell
That ever mermaid bore
From enchanted lands
66
Sometimes, if I please
That she blossom more,
Her beauty is so fine—
Rosy as red wine.
O! this love of mine!
Mouth a ripened fruit,
If the maid is mute,
Tempting me to sin
In delicious greed;
If a smile I win,
Then with charming speed
It is cleft indeed,
Showing pearly seed.
Mouth a ripened fruit,
If the maid is mute,
Tempting me to sin
In delicious greed;
If a smile I win,
Then with charming speed
It is cleft indeed,
Showing pearly seed.
O! this love of mine!
Such a witching curl,
Such a cunning chin,
Like a single pearl
With a dimple in;
Parian carvéd throat
All of curvéd lines
Such as Psyche shows,
When she sad reclines
In some isle remote
Mourning Cupid's boat
Fading out of view;
Is the picture true?
Then her bosom's snow
In twin drifts, but hush!—
All that I have shown
Could not bid her blush:
If you are a maid,
Since never was a pair,
Quite too much is said
Unless you are as fair;
If you are a man,
Mate her if you can!
Such a witching curl,
Such a cunning chin,
Like a single pearl
With a dimple in;
Parian carvéd throat
All of curvéd lines
67
When she sad reclines
In some isle remote
Mourning Cupid's boat
Fading out of view;
Is the picture true?
Then her bosom's snow
In twin drifts, but hush!—
All that I have shown
Could not bid her blush:
If you are a maid,
Since never was a pair,
Quite too much is said
Unless you are as fair;
If you are a man,
Mate her if you can!
| Poems | |