 | English Roses |  |
78
CICELY.
Years go by,
Cicely;
But I cannot solve your riddle
Which grows deeper with the days,
And the parting of the ways
Though we loitered at their middle.
Earth and sky,
Cicely,
And no glory sweet and single—
Green of meadow, gray of cloud,
Woven to a wonder proud—
In your graces meet and mingle.
Cicely;
But I cannot solve your riddle
Which grows deeper with the days,
And the parting of the ways
Though we loitered at their middle.
Earth and sky,
Cicely,
And no glory sweet and single—
Green of meadow, gray of cloud,
Woven to a wonder proud—
In your graces meet and mingle.
Tell me why,
Cicely,
You have softly, sadly altered.
Am I waning? Have you waxed?
Do the lips, that once relaxed,
Now forget the tune they faltered?
Blossoms fly,
Cicely,
And the freshness and the fragrance,
When the summer time steps on
And its ripeness red is gone,
Will be unremembered vagrance.
Cicely,
You have softly, sadly altered.
Am I waning? Have you waxed?
Do the lips, that once relaxed,
Now forget the tune they faltered?
Blossoms fly,
Cicely,
And the freshness and the fragrance,
When the summer time steps on
And its ripeness red is gone,
Will be unremembered vagrance.
Every eye,
Cicely,
Feels the glamour of your glances;
Many a solemn act and end
On those careless looks depend,
Though to you but passing fancies.
Love is shy,
Cicely,
And the loudest plea and longest,
Though it offer bribes of gold
And its gifts be manifold.
Is not (if you heed) the strongest.
Cicely,
Feels the glamour of your glances;
Many a solemn act and end
On those careless looks depend,
Though to you but passing fancies.
Love is shy,
Cicely,
And the loudest plea and longest,
Though it offer bribes of gold
And its gifts be manifold.
Is not (if you heed) the strongest.
79
Streams run dry,
Cicely;
And at last the flooded river,
Which has wafted on its tide
Toys and treasures to your side,
Will have nothing to deliver.
Ere you cry,
Cicely,
Fondly for the riches banished;
Take the true and honest heart
Now before it can depart,
Or your charms themselves have vanished.
Cicely;
And at last the flooded river,
Which has wafted on its tide
Toys and treasures to your side,
Will have nothing to deliver.
Ere you cry,
Cicely,
Fondly for the riches banished;
Take the true and honest heart
Now before it can depart,
Or your charms themselves have vanished.
| English Roses | |