JUSTINE, YOU LOVE ME NOT!

“Helas! vous ne m’aimez pas.”—Piron.

I know, Justine, you speak me fair

As often as we meet;

And ’tis a luxury, I swear,

To hear a voice so sweet;

And yet it does not please me quite,

The civil way you’ve got;

For me you’re something too polite—

Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, you never scold

At aught that I may do:

If I am passionate or cold,

’Tis all the same to you.

“A charming temper,” say the men,

“To smooth a husband’s lot”:

I wish ’twere ruffled now and then—

Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, you wear a smile

As beaming as the sun;

But who supposes all the while

It shines for only one?

Though azure skies are fair to see,

A transient cloudy spot

In yours would promise more to me—

Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, you make my name

Your eulogistic theme,

And say—if any chance to blame—

You hold me in esteem.

Such words, for all their kindly scope,

Delight me not a jot;

Just as you would have praised the Pope—

Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine—for I have heard

What friendly voices tell—

You do not blush to say the word,

“You like me passing well;”

And thus the fatal sound I hear

That seals my lonely lot:

There’s nothing now to hope or fear—

Justine, you love me not!

John Godfrey Saxe.