Three Sunsets and Other Poems

by Lewis Carroll

A LESSON IN LATIN.

Our Latin books, in motley row, Invite us to our task— Gay Horace, stately Cicero: Yet there’s one verb, when once we know, No higher skill we ask: This ranks all other lore above— We’ve learned “‘Amare’ means ‘to love’!” So, hour by hour, from flower to flower, We sip the sweets of Life: Till, all too soon, the clouds arise, And flaming cheeks and flashing eyes Proclaim the dawn of strife: With half a smile and half a sigh, “Amare! Bitter One!” we cry. Last night we owned, with looks forlorn, “Too well the scholar knows There is no rose without a thorn”— But peace is made! We sing, this morn, “No thorn without a rose!” Our Latin lesson is complete: We’ve learned that Love is Bitter-Sweet! May, 1888.

PUCK LOST AND FOUND.

Puck has fled the haunts of men: Ridicule has made him wary: In the woods, and down the glen, No one meets a Fairy! “Cream!” the greedy Goblin cries— Empties the deserted dairy— Steals the spoons, and off he flies. Still we seek our Fairy! Ah! What form is entering? Lovelit eyes and laughter airy! Is not this a better thing, Child, whose visit thus I sing, Even than a Fairy? Nov. 22, 1891. Puck has ventured back agen: Ridicule no more affrights him: In the very haunts of men Newer sport delights him. Capering lightly to and fro, Ever frolicking and funning— “Crack!” the mimic pistols go! Hark! The noise is stunning! All too soon will Childhood gay Realise Life’s sober sadness. Let’s be merry while we may, Innocent and happy Fay! Elves were made for gladness! Nov. 25, 1891.

A SONG OF LOVE.

Say, what is the spell, when her fledgelings are cheeping, That lures the bird home to her nest? Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, To cuddle and croon it to rest? What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, Till it cooes with the voice of the dove? ’Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low— And the name of the secret is Love! For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love! Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning, Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease? That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearning For the brotherly hand-grip of peace? Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrills Around us, beneath, and above? ’Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, how it goes— But the name of the secret is Love! For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love! Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, Like a picture so fair to the sight? That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, Till the little lambs leap with delight? ’Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, Though ’tis sung, by the angels above, In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear— And the name of the secret is Love! For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love! Oct., 1886.