She has laughed as softly as if she sighed,
…She has counted six and over,
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried –
…Oh each a worthy lover!
They “give her time”; for her soul must slip
…Where the world has set the grooving:
She will lie to none with her fair red lip –
…But love seeks truer loving.
She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,
…As her thoughts were beyond recalling,
With a glance for one, and a glance for some,
…For her eyelids rising and falling;
Speaks common words with a blushful air,
…Hears bold words, unreproving
But her silence says – what she never will swear –
…And love seeks better loving.
Go, lady, lean to the night-guitar,
…And drop a smile to the bringer,
Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,
…At the voice of an indoor singer.
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;
…Glance lightly on their removing;
And join new vows to old perjuries –
…But dare not call it loving.
Unless you can think, when the song is done,
…No other is soft in the rhythm;
Unless you can feel, when left by one,
…That all men else go with him;
Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,
…That your beauty itself wants proving;
Unless you can swear, “For life, for death!” –
…Oh fear to call it loving!
Unless you can muse in a crowd all day,
…On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,
…With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,
…Through behoving and unbehoving;
Unless you can die when the dream is past –
…Oh never call it loving!
The Bard on the Hill 