Overtures

My dear and I, we disagreed

When we had been much time together.

For when will lovers learn to sail

From sailing always in good weather?

She said a hateful little word

Between the pages of the book.

I bubbled with a noble rage,

I bruised her with a dreadful look,

And thanked her kindly for the word

Of such a little silly thing;

Indeed I loved my poet then

Beyond my dear, or anything.

And she, the proud girl, swept away,

How swift and scornfully she went!

And I the frightened lover stayed,

And have not had one hour’s content

Until to-day; until I knew

That I was loved again, again;

Then hazard how this thing befel,

Brother of women and of men?

“Perhaps a gallant gentleman

Accomplished it, who saw you bleed;

Perhaps she wrote upon the book

A riddling thing that you could read;

“Perhaps she crept to you, and cried,

And took upon her all the blame.”

O no, do proud girls creep and cry?

“Perhaps she whispered you your name.”

O no, she walked alone, and I

Was walking in the rainy wood,

And saw her drooping by the tree,

And saw my work of widowhood.