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Crowned

"In the tempest thrust him forth;
When thou art more cruel than he,
Then will Love be kind to thee."

Sara Teasdale [1884

TO MANON

AS TO HIS CHOICE OF HER

IF I had chosen thee, thou shouldst have been
A virgin proud, untamed, immaculate,
Chaste as the morning star, a saint, a queen,
Scarred by no wars, no violence of hate.
Thou shouldst have been of soul commensurate
With thy fair body, brave and virtuous
And kind and just; and if of poor estate,
At least an honest woman for my house.
I would have had thee come of honored blood
And honorable nurture. Thou shouldst bear
Sons to my pride and daughters to my heart,
And men should hold thee happy, wise, and good.
Lo, thou art none of this, but only fair,

Yet must I love thee, dear, and as thou art.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840

CROWNED

You came to me bearing bright roses,
Red like the wine of your heart;
You twisted them into a garland
To set me aside from the mart.
Red roses to crown me your lover,
And I walked aureoled and apart.

Enslaved and encircled, I bore it,

Proud token of my gift to you.
The petals waned paler, and shriveled,

851

And dropped; and the thorns started through. Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover,

A diadem woven with rue.

Amy Lowell [1874

HEBE

I SAW the twinkle of white feet,

I saw the flash of robes descending;

Before her ran an influence fleet,

That bowed my heart like barley bending.

As, in bare fields, the searching bees
Pilot to blooms beyond our finding,
It led me on, by sweet degrees

Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding.

Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates;
With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me;
The long-sought Secret's golden gates
On musical hinges swung before me.

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp
Thrilling with godhood; like a lover
I sprang the proffered life to clasp;—-

The beaker fell; the luck was over.

The Earth has drunk the vintage up;
What boots it patch the goblet's splinters?

Can Summer fill the icy cup

Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's?

O spendthrift haste! await the Gods;

Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience;

Haste scatters on unthankful sods

The immortal gift in vain libations.

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo,

And shuns the hands would seize upon her;

Follow thy life, and she will sue

To pour for thee the cup of honor.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

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'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 [1816-1887]

SNOWDROP

WHEN, full of warm and eager love,
I clasp you in my fond embrace,
You gently push me back and say,

"Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace."

You kiss me just as you would kiss

Some woman friend you chanced to see; You call me "dearest."-All love's forms Are yours, not its reality.

Oh, Annie! cry, and storm, and rave!
Do anything with passion in it!

Hate me an hour, and then turn round
And love me truly, just one minute.
William Wetmore Story [1819-1895]

WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN

When the Sultan Shah-Zaman

Goes to the city Ispahan,

Even before he gets so far

As the place where the clustered palm-trees are,

At the last of the thirty palace-gates,

The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom,

Orders a feast in his favorite room

Glittering squares of colored ice,

When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan 855

Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice,
Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates,
Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces,

Limes, and citrons, and apricots,

And wines that are known to Eastern princes;
And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots

Of spiced meats and costliest fish

And all that the curious palate could wish,

Pass in and out of the cedarn doors;
Scattered over mosaic floors

Are anemones, myrtles, and violets,
And a musical fountain throws its jets
Of a hundred colors into the air.
The dusk Sultana loosens her hair,
And stains with the henna-plant the tips
Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips
Till they bloom again; but, alas, that rose
Not for the Sultan buds and blows,
Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman
When he goes to the city Ispahan.

Then at a wave of her sunny hand
The dancing-girls of Samarcand
Glide in like shapes from fairy-land,
Making a sudden mist in air

Of fleecy veils and floating hair

And white arms lifted. Orient blood
Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes.
And there, in this Eastern Paradise,
Filled with the breath of sandal-wood,
And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh,
Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan,
Sipping the wines of Astrakhan;
And her Arab lover sits with her.
That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman
Goes to the city Ispahan.

Now, when I see an extra light,
Flaming, flickering on the night
From my neighbor's casement opposite,

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