 | Poems (1867) |  |
161
TO MARIA IVANOVNA.
If dark be she I love, or fair,
I ask not now; I do not seek
With her the lily to compare,
To find the rose upon her cheek.
Such flowers as these grow everywhere;
With all things soft, and dusk, and rare
I liken her; the woodbine feels
And finds her way with touches light;
She keeps her hold with tendrils slight.
How close, how kind the woodbine steals!
The summer air is warm with bliss
All stolen from the woodbine's kiss.
I ask not now; I do not seek
With her the lily to compare,
To find the rose upon her cheek.
Such flowers as these grow everywhere;
With all things soft, and dusk, and rare
I liken her; the woodbine feels
And finds her way with touches light;
She keeps her hold with tendrils slight.
How close, how kind the woodbine steals!
The summer air is warm with bliss
All stolen from the woodbine's kiss.
Sit thou by me when eve has stilled
And soothed the day's quick pulse to rest;
Let none be near us while we build
Within each other's hearts a nest,
Of joys that fade, of youth that flies,
Of love that stays, of memories
That pass not with the passing day:
Sit thou by me; be sad, be gay,
So sweet thy smiles, so sweet thy sighs,
So soft thy clasp, so kind thine eyes.
Be what thou wilt, 'tis ever best;
Be what thou art, and I am blest!
And soothed the day's quick pulse to rest;
162
Within each other's hearts a nest,
Of joys that fade, of youth that flies,
Of love that stays, of memories
That pass not with the passing day:
Sit thou by me; be sad, be gay,
So sweet thy smiles, so sweet thy sighs,
So soft thy clasp, so kind thine eyes.
Be what thou wilt, 'tis ever best;
Be what thou art, and I am blest!
| Poems (1867) | |