Stories in Verse. Henry Abbey
one door
I entered to-day.
No palace standeth
As happy as this.
Love ever ruleth
Its precincts alone—
His sceptre a kiss,
And a smile his throne.
There is one Blanche feareth—
She loves not deceit—
She only wisheth
To dazzle his heart.
We promise to meet.
And separate depart.
XVII.
COMPARISONS.
The moon is like a shepherd with a flock of starry lambkins,
The wind is like a whisper to the mountains from the sea,
The sun a gold moth browsing on a flower's pearl-dusted pollen;
But my words can scarcely utter what my love is like to me.
She is the sun in light's magnificence across my heart's day shining,
She's the moon when through the heavens of my heart flash meteor dreams;
Her voice is fragrant south wind a silvery sentence blowing;
She is sweeter than the sweetest, she is better than she seems.
XVIII.
AN INQUIRY OF THE SEXTON.
"Sexton, was she here to-day
Who has met me oft before?
Did she come and go away,
Tired of waiting any more?
For I fancy some mistake
Has occurred about the time;
Yet, the hour has not yet passed;
Hark! the bells begin to chime.
"In her hair two roses woo,
One a white, and one a red.
Azure silk her dress might be,
Though she oft wears white instead.
Here, beside this marble cross,
Oft she kneels in silent prayer;
Tell me, has she been to-day,
In the church-yard anywhere?"
"No, the lady that you seek
Has not passed the gate to-day:
I've been digging at a grave,
And if she had come this way
I'd have seen her from my work.
She may come to meet you yet.
I remember well her looks.
Names, not faces, I forget."
XIX.
A RIVAL.
It seems I have a rival
Domiciled over the way;
But Blanche, dear heart, dislikes him,
Whatever her father may say—
This gorgeously broadclothed fellow,
Good enough in his way.
To-day as I left the church-yard,
I met them taking a ride,
And my heart was pierced like a buckler
With a javelin of pride;
I only saw in my anger
They were sitting side by side.
To-night, in the purple twilight,
Blanche waited upon the walk,
And beckoned her white hand to me—
A lily swayed on its stalk.
Soon my jealous pride was foundered
In the maelstrom of talk.
'Twas useless to go to the church-yard,
For some one had played the spy;
She fancied it was the sexton—
We would let it all go by;
We now would have bolder meetings,
'Neath her father's very eye.
She took my arm as we idled,
And talked of our love once more,
And how, with her basket of flowers,
She had passed the street before;
We tarried long in the moonlight,
And kissed good-night at her door.
XX.
KISSES AND A RING.
I never behold the sea
Rush up to the hand of the shore,
And with its vehement lips
Kiss its down-dropt whiteness o'er,
But I think of that magic night,
When my lips, like waves on a coast,
Broke over the moonlit hand
Of her that I love the most.
I never behold the surf
Lit by the sun into gold,
Curl and glitter and gleam,
In a ring-like billow rolled,
But I think of another ring,
A simple, delicate band,
That in the night of our troth
I placed on a darling hand.
XXI.
AN ENEMY MAY BE SERVED, EVEN THROUGH MISTAKE, WITH PROFIT.
I was walking down the sidewalk,
When up, with flying mane,
Two iron-black steeds came spurning
The ground in wild disdain;
I caught them in an instant,
And held them by the rein.
It seems the man had fainted
In his elegant coupé;
I saw his face a moment,
And then I turned away,
Wishing my steps had led me
Through other streets that day.
Some one who saw the rescue
Afterward told him my name.
For the first in many a season,
Beneath our roof he came.