C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Sonnets
By George Henry Boker (1823–1890)
E
Amongst thy features argues me some harm,
Or else they practice wicked treachery
Against themselves, thy heart, and hapless me.
For as I start aside with blank alarm,
Dreading the glitter which begins to arm
Thy clouded brows, lo! from thy lips I see
A smile come stealing, like a loaded bee,
Heavy with sweets and perfumes, all ablaze
With soft reflections from the flowery wall
Whereon it pauses. Yet I will not raise
One question more, let smile or frown befall,
Taxing thy love where I should only praise,
And asking changes that might change thee all.
That used nor word, nor rhyme, nor balanced pause
Of doubtful phrase, which so supinely draws
My barren verse, and blurs love’s shining mark
With misty fancies!—Oh! to burst the dark
Of smothered feeling with some new-found laws,
Hidden in nature, that might bridge the flaws
Between two beings, end this endless cark,
And make hearts know what lips have never said!
Oh! for some spell, by which one soul might move
With echoes from another, and dispread
Contagious music through its chords, above
The touch of mimic art: that thou might’st tread
Beneath thy feet this wordy show of love!
Here let Time’s fleet and tireless pinions stay
Their endless flight!—or to the present day
Bind my Love’s life and mine. I have my fill
Of earthly bliss: to move is to meet ill.
Though lavish fortune in my path might lay
Fame, power, and wealth,—the toys that make the play
Of earth’s grown children,—I would rather till
The stubborn furrows of an arid land,
Toil with the brute, bear famine and disease,
Drink bitter bondage to the very lees,
Than break our union by love’s tender band,
Or drop its glittering shackles from my hand,
To grasp at empty glories such as these.