PARTING LOVERS.
SIENNA.
I love thee, love thee, Giulio!
Some call me cold, and some demure,
And if thou hast ever guessed that so
I love thee … well;—the proof was poor,
And no one could be sure.
Before thy song (with shifted rhymes
To suit my name) did I undo
The persian? If it moved sometimes,
Thou hast not seen a hand push through
A flower or two.
My mother listening to my sleep
Heard nothing but a sigh at night,—
The short sigh rippling on the deep,—
When hearts run out of breath and sigh
Of men, to God's clear light.
When others named thee,… thought thy brows
Were straight, thy smile was tender,… "Here
He comes between the vineyard-rows!"—
I said not "Ay,"—nor waited, Dear,
To feel thee step too near.
I left such things to bolder girls,
Olivia or Clotilda. Nay,
When that Clotilda through her curls
Held both thine eyes in hers one day,
I marvelled, let me say.
I could not try the woman's trick:
Between us straightway fell the blush
Which kept me separate, blind, and sick.
A wind came with thee in a flush,
As blow through Horeb's bush.
But now that Italy invokes
Her young men to go forth and chase
The foe or perish,—nothing chokes
My voice, or drives me from the place:
I look thee in the face.
I love thee! it is understood,
Confest: I do not shrink or start:
No blushes: all my body's blood
Has gone to greaten this poor heart,
That, loving, we may part.