 | Selected Poems from The Atlantic Monthly |  |
861
A WORD TO THE WISE.
LOVE hailed a little maid,
Romping through the meadow:
Heedless in the sun she played,
Scornful of the shadow.
"Come with me," whispered he;
"Listen, sweet, to love and reason."
"By and by," she mocked reply;
"Love's not in season."
Romping through the meadow:
Heedless in the sun she played,
Scornful of the shadow.
"Come with me," whispered he;
"Listen, sweet, to love and reason."
"By and by," she mocked reply;
"Love's not in season."
Years went, years came;
Light mixed with shadow.
Love met the maid again,
Dreaming through the meadow.
"Not so coy," urged the boy;
"List in time to love and reason."
"By and by," she mused reply;
"Love's still in season."
Light mixed with shadow.
Love met the maid again,
Dreaming through the meadow.
"Not so coy," urged the boy;
"List in time to love and reason."
"By and by," she mused reply;
"Love's still in season."
Years went, years came;
Light changed to shadow.
Love saw the maid again,
Waiting in the meadow.
"Pass no more; my dream is o'er;
I can listen now to reason."
"Keep thee coy," mocked the boy;
"Love's out of season."
Light changed to shadow.
Love saw the maid again,
Waiting in the meadow.
"Pass no more; my dream is o'er;
I can listen now to reason."
"Keep thee coy," mocked the boy;
"Love's out of season."
[Description: Image of the poem, showing the indentation of the lines]
| Selected Poems from The Atlantic Monthly | |