Perhaps some seaman, in Peru
Or Ind, hath stow’d herein a rare
Cargo of birds’ eggs for his Sue;
With many a vow that he’ll be true,
And many a hint that she is too,
Too fair.
Perhaps—but wherefore vainly pry
Into the page that’s folded there?
I shall be better by and by:
The porters, as I sit and sigh,
Pass and repass—I wonder why
They stare!
ON THE BRINK.
I watch’d her as she stoop’d to pluck
A wildflower in her hair to twine;
And wish’d that it had been my luck
To call her mine.
Anon I heard her rate with mad
Mad words her babe within its cot;
And felt particularly glad
That it had not.
I knew (such subtle brains have men)
That she was uttering what she shouldn’t;
And thought that I would chide, and then
I thought I wouldn’t:
Who could have gazed upon that face,
Those pouting coral lips, and chided?
A Rhadamanthus, in my place,
Had done as I did:
For ire wherewith our bosoms glow
Is chain’d there oft by Beauty’s spell;
And, more than that, I did not know
The widow well.
So the harsh phrase pass’d unreproved.
Still mute—(O brothers, was it sin?)—
I drank, unutterably moved,
Her beauty in:
And to myself I murmur’d low,
As on her upturn’d face and dress
The moonlight fell, “Would she say No,
By chance, or Yes?”