Wilt thou love me, fairest?
Though thou art not fair;
And I think thou wearest
Someone-else’s hair.
Thou could’st love, though, dearly:
And, as I am told,
Thou art very nearly
Worth thy weight, in gold.
Dost thou love me, sweet one?
Tell me that thou dost!
Women fairly beat one,
But I think thou must.
Thou art loved so dearly:
I am plain, but then
Thou (to speak sincerely)
Art as plain again.
Love me, bashful fairy!
I’ve an empty purse:
And I’ve “moods,” which vary;
Mostly for the worse.
Still, I love thee dearly:
Though I make (I feel)
Love a little queerly,
I’m as true as steel.
Love me, swear to love me
(As, you know, they do)
By yon heaven above me
And its changeless blue.
Love me, lady, dearly,
If you’ll be so good;
Though I don’t see clearly
On what ground you should.
Love me—ah or love me
Not, but be my bride!
Do not simply shove me
(So to speak) aside!
P’raps it would be dearly
Purchased at the price;
But a hundred yearly
Would be very nice.
THOUGHTS AT A RAILWAY STATION.
’Tis but a box, of modest deal;
Directed to no matter where:
Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal—
Yes, I am blubbering like a seal;
For on it is this mute appeal,
“With care.”
I am a stern cold man, and range
Apart: but those vague words “With care”
Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange:
Drawn from my moral Moated Grange,
I feel I rather like the change
Of air.
Hast thou ne’er seen rough pointsmen spy
Some simple English phrase—“With care”
Or “This side uppermost”—and cry
Like children? No? No more have I.
Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry
A bear.
But ah! what treasure hides beneath
That lid so much the worse for wear?
A ring perhaps—a rosy wreath—
A photograph by Vernon Heath—
Some matron’s temporary teeth
Or hair!