On The Brink
I WATCH’D her as she stoop’d to pluck
A wild flower in her hair to twine;
And wish’d that it had been my luck
To call her mine;
Anon I heard her rate with mad,
Mad words her babe within its cot,
And felt particularly glad
That it had not.
I knew (such subtle brains have men!)
That she was uttering what she shouldn’t;
And thought that I would chide, and then
I thought I would n’t.
Few could have gaz’d upon that face,
Those pouting coral lips, and chided:
A Rhadamanthus, in my place,
Had done as I did.
For wrath with which our bosoms glow
Is chain’d there oft by Beauty’s spell;
And, more than that, I did not know
The widow well.
So the harsh phrase pass’d unreprov’d:
Still mute—(O brothers, was it sin?)—
I drank, unutterably mov’d,
Her beauty in.
And to myself I murmur’d low,
As on her upturn’d face and dress
The moonlight fell, “Would she say No,—
By chance, or Yes?”
She stood so calm, so like a ghost,
Betwixt me and that magic moon,
That I already was almost
A finish’d coon.
But when she caught adroitly up
And sooth’d with smiles her little daughter;
And gave it, if I ’m right, a sup
Of barley-water;
And, crooning still the strange, sweet lore
Which only mothers’ tongues can utter,
Snow’d with deft hand the sugar o’er
Its bread-and-butter;
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Stuart Calverley
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
