I says he loves me well, and I
Believe it; in my hands, to make
Or mar, his life lies utterly,
Nor can I the strong plea deny.
Which claims my love for his love's sake.
He says there is no face so fair
As mine; when I draw near, his eyes
Light up; each ripple of my hair
He loves; the very clunk I wear
He touches fondly where it lies.
And roses, roses all the way,
Upon my path fall, strewed by him;
His tenderness by night, by day,
Keeps faithful watch to heap alway
My cup of pleasure to the brim.
The other women, full of spite,
Count me the happiest woman born
To be so worshipped; I delight
To flaunt his homage in their sight,—
For me the rose, for them its thorn.
I love him—or I think I do;
Sure one MUST love what is so sweet.
He is all tender and all true,
All eloquent to plead and sue,
All strength—though kneeling at my feet.
Yet I had visions once of yore,
Girlish imaginings of a zest,
A possible thrill,—but why run o'er
These fancies?—idle dreams, no more;
I will forget them, this is best.
So let him take,—the past is past;
The future, with its golden key,
Into his outstretched hands I cast.
I shall love him—perhaps—at last,
As now I love his love for me.