Two Truths

BY HELEN HUNT JACKSON

'Darling,' he said, 'I never meant
...To hurt you;' and his eyes were wet.
'I would not hurt you for the world:
...Am I to blame if I forget?'

'Forgive my selfish tears!' she cried,
...'Forgive! I knew that it was not
Because you meant to hurt me, sweet---
...I knew it was that you forgot!'

But all the same, deep in her heart
...Rankled this thought, and rankles yet,---
'When love is at its best, one loves
...So much that he cannot forget.'

The Gift

BY SARA TEASDALE

What can I give you, my lord, my lover,
You who have given the world to me,
Showed me the light and the joy that cover
The wild sweet earth and the restless sea?
All that I have are gifts for your giving-
If I gave them again, you would find them old,
And your soul would weary of always living
Before the mirror my life would hold.
What shall I give you, my lord, my lover?
The gift that breaks the heart in me:
I bid you awake at dawn and discover
I have gone my way and left you free.

The Farmer's Bride

BY CHARLOTTE MEW

Three Summers since I chose a maid,
Too young maybe - but more's to do
    At harvest-time than bide and woo.
    When us was wed she turned afraid
Of love and me and all things human;
Like the shut of a winter's day.
Her smile went out, and 'twasn't a woman--
    More like a little, frightened fay.
    One night, in the Fall, she runned away.

"Out 'mong the sheep, her be," they said,
'Should properly have been abed;
    But sure enough she wasn't there
    Lying awake with her wide brown stare.
So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down
We chased her, flying like a hare
Before our lanterns. To Church-Town
All in a shiver and a scare
    We caught her, fetched her home at last
    And turned the key upon her, fast.

She does the work about the house
As well as most, but like a mouse:
    Happy enough to chat and play
    With birds and rabbits and such as they,
So long as men-folk stay away.
"Not near, not near!" her eyes beseech
When one of us comes within reach.
The women say that beasts in stall
    Look round like children at her call.
    I've hardly heard her speak at all.

Shy as a leveret, swift as he,
Straight and slight as a young larch tree,
Sweet as the first wild violets, she,
To her wild self. But what to me?

The short days shorten and the oaks are brown,
The blue smoke rises to the low gray sky,
    One leaf in the still air falls slowly down,
    A magpie's spotted feathers lie
On the black earth spread white with rime,
The berries redden up to Christmas-time.
What's Christmas-time without there be
    Some other in the house than we!

She sleeps up in the attic there
Alone, poor maid. 'Tis but a stair
Betwixt us. Oh, my God! - the down,
The soft young down of her; the brown,
The brown of her - her eyes, her hair, her hair!

To Cupid

BY JOANNA BAILLIE

Child, with many a childish wile,
Timid look, and blushing smile,
Downy wings to steal the way,
Guilded bow, and quiver gay,
Who in thy simple mien would trace
The tyrant of the human race?

Who is he whose flinty heart
Hath not felt the flying dart?
Who is he that from the wound
Hath not pain and pleasure found?
Who is he that hath not shed
Curse and blessing on thy head?

The Quest

BY DENISE LEVERTOV

High, hollowed in green
above the rocks of reason
lies the crater lake
whose ice the dreamer breaks
to find a summer season.

'He will plunge like a plummet down
far into hungry tides'
they cry, but as the sea
climbs to a lunar magnet
so the dreamer pursues
the lake where love resides.

The Sea's Wash In The Hollow Of The Heart...

BY DENISE LEVERTOV

Turn from that road's beguiling ease; return
to your hunger's turret. Enter, climb the stair
chill with disuse, where the croaking toad of time
regards from shimmering eyes your slow ascent
and the drip, drip, of darkness glimmers on the stone
to show you how your longing waits alone.
What alchemy shines from under that shut door,
spinning out gold from the hollow of the heart?

Enter the turret of your love, and lie
close in the arms of the sea; let in new suns
that beat and echo in the mind like sounds
risen from sunken cities lost to fear;
let in the light that answers your desire
awakening at midnight with the fire,
until its magic burns the wavering sea
and flames carress the windows of your tower.

The Request of Alexis

BY SARAH DIXON

Give, give me back that Trifle you despise,
Give back my Heart, with all its Injuries:
Tho’ by your Cruelty it wounded be,
The Thing is yet of wond’rous Use to me.
A gen’rous Conqueror, when the Battle’s won,
Bestows a Charity on the Undone:
If from the well aim’d Stroke no Hope appear,
He kills the Wretch, and shews Compassion there:
But you, Barbarian! keep alive Pain,
A lasting Trophy of Unjust Disdain.

The Vain Advice

BY CATHERINE COCKBURN

Ah, gaze not on those eyes! forbear
That soft enchanting voice to hear:
Not looks of basilisks give surer death,
Nor Syrens sing with more destructive breath.

Fly, if thy freedom thou’dst maintain,
Alas! I feel th’advice is vain!
A heart, whose safety but in flight does lie,
Is too far lost to have the power to fly.

The Letter

BY ELIZABETH RIDDELL

I take my pen in hand
there was a meadow
Beside a field of oats, beside a wood,
Beside a road, beside a day spread out
Green at the edges, yellow at the heart.
The dust lifted a little, a finger’s breadth,
The word of the wood pigeon traveled slow,
A slow half pace behind the tick of time.

To tell you I am well, and thinking of you
And of the walk through the meadow,
and of another walk
Along the neat piled ruin of the town
Under a pale heaven, empty of all but death
And rain beginning. The river ran beside.

It has been a long time since I wrote. I have no news.
I put my head between my hands and hope
My heat will choke me. I put out my hand
To touch you and touch air. I turn to sleep
And find a nightmare, hollowness and fear.

And by the way, I have had no letter now
For eight weeks, it must be
a long eight weeks,
Because you have nothing to say, nothing at all,
Not even to record your emptiness
Or guess what’s to become of you without love.

I know you have cares,
Ashes to shovel, broken glass to mend
And many a cloth to patch before the sunset.

Write to me soon, and tell me how you are.
If you still tremble, sweat and glower, still stretch
A hand for me at dusk, play me the tune,
Show me the leaves and towers, the lamb, the rose.

Because I always wish to hear of you
And feel my heart swell, and the blood run out
At the ungraceful syllable of your name
Said through the scent of stocks, the little snore of fire,
The shoreless waves of symphony, the murmuring night.

I will end this letter now. I am yours with love.
Always with love, with love.

Touch Wood

BY HELEN FOLEY

Touch wood, be humble, never dare to say
That this is joy lest satisfaction throw
A shade on love which now (while roots still grow)
Stands like the proudest chestnut tree in May
With all its candles burning. Passions sway:
This has no tide nor any ebb and flow;
It has no evening, no red afterglow,
And needs no moon to keep the night at bay.

But since most lovers falter or contend,
And all their promises and all their powers
Drift towards a common grave, what chance have we?
Poets keep the past and priests eternity;
Only the day, the flying day is ours,
But while we hold it fast it cannot end.

The Art of Coquetry

BY MRS. CHARLOTTE LENNOX

Ye lovely maids! whose yet unpractis'd hearts
Ne'er felt the force of Love's resistless darts;
Who justly set a value on your charms,
Pow'r all your wish, but beauty all your arms
Who o'er mankind wou'd fain exert your sway
And teach the lordly tyrant to obey;
Attend my rules, to you alone addrest
Deep let them sink in every female breast.
The queen of love herself my bosom fires,
Assists my numbers, and my thoughts in spires
Me she instructed in each secret art,
That first subdues and then enslaves the heart
The sigh that heaves by stealth, the starting tear
The melting languish, the obliging fear;
Half-utter'd wishes, broken, kind replies,
And all the silent eloquence of eyes;
To teach the fair by various wiles to move
The soften'd soul, and bend the heart to love
Proud of her charms, and conscious of her face,
The haughty Beauty calls forth ev'ry grace,
With fierce defiance throws the killing dart;
By force she wins, by force she keeps the heart;
The witty fair a nimbler game pursues
Aims at the head, but the rapt soul subdues,
The languid nymph enslaves with softer art,
With sweet neglect she steals into the heart;
Slowly she moves her swimming eyes around,
Conceals her shaft, but meditates the wound;
Her gentle languishments the gazers move,
Her voice is musick, and her looks are love.
To few tho' nature may these gifts impart,
What she witholds, the wise can win from art
Then let your airs be suited to your face,
Nor to a languish tack a sprightly grace.
The short round face, brisk eyes, and auburn hair
Must smiling joy in every motion wear,
The quick unsettled glance must deal around,
Hide all design, and seem by chance to wound,
Dark rolling eyes a languish may assume,
These the soft looks and melting airs become
The pensive head upon the hand reclin'd,
As of some sweet disorder fill'd the mind;
Let the heav'd breast a struggling sign restrain
And seem to stop the falling tear with pain.
The youth, who all the soft distress believes,
Soon wants the kind compassion which he gives
But beauty, wit, and youth may sometimes fail,
Nor always o'er the stubborn soul prevail;
Then let the fair one have recourse to art,
Who cannot storm, may undermine the heart.
First form your artful looks with studious care,
From mile to grave, from tender to severe.
Oft on the careless youth your glances dart,
A tender meaning let each glance impart.
Whene'er he meets your looks, with modest price
And soft confusion turn your eyes aside,
Let a soft sigh steal out, as if by chance,
Then cautious turn, and steal another glance.
Caught by these arts, with pride and hope elate,
The destined victim rushes on his fate:
Pleased, his imagined victory pursues,
And the kind maid with soft attention views,
Contemplates now her shape, her air, her face,
And thinks each feature wears an added grace;
Till gratitude, which first his bosom proves,
By slow degrees sublimed, at length he loves.
'Tis harder still to fix than gain a heart;
What's won by beauty must be kept by art.
Too kind a treatment the best lover cloys,
And oft despair the growing flame destroys:
Sometimes with smiles receive him, sometimes tears,
Perhaps he mourns his ill-requited pains
Condemns your sway, and strives to break his chains;
Behaves as if he now your scorn defied,
And thinks at least he shall alarm your pride:
But with indifference view the seeming chance,
And let your eyes to seek new conquests range;
While his torn breast with jealous fury burns,
He hopes, despairs, adores and hates by turns;
With anguish now repents the weak deceit,
And powerful passion bears him to your feet.
Strive not the jealous love to perplex,
Ill suits suspicion with that haughty sex;
Rashly they judge, and always think the worst,
And love if often banish'd by distrust.
To these an open free behaviour wear,
Avoid disguise, and seem at least sincere;
Whene'er you meet affect a glad surprize,
And give a melting softness to your eyes;
By some unguarded work your love reveal,
And anxiously the rising blush conceal.
By arts like these the jealous you deceive,
Then most deluded when they most believe.
But while in all you seek to raise desire,
Beware the fatal passion you inspire:
Each soft intruding wish in time reprove,
And guard against the sweet invader love.
Not for the tender were these rules design'd,
Who in their faces show their yielding mind:
Whose eyes a native languishment can wear,
Whose smiles are artless, and whose blush sincere;
But for the nymph who liberty can prize,
And vindicate the triumph of her eyes:
Who o'er mankind a haughty rule maintains,
Whose wit can manage what her beauty gains;
Such by these arts their empire may improve,
And unsubdu'd controul the world by love.

To A Lady Making Love

BY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU

Good Madam, when ladies are willing,
A man must needs look like a fool;
For me, I would not give a shilling
For one who would love out of rule.

You should leave us to guess by your blushing,
And not speak the matter so plain;
'Tis ours to write and be pushing,
'Tis yours to affect a disdain.

That you're in a terrible taking,
By all these sweet oglings I see;
But the fruit that can fall without shaking,
Indeed is too mellow for me.

(From) To Alexis In Answer to His Poem Against Fruition

BY APHRA BEHN

Since man with that inconstancy was born,
To love the absent, and the present scorn
    Why do we deck, why do we dress
    For such short-lived happiness?
    Why do we put attraction on,
Since either way ’tis we must be undone?

    They fly if honour take our part,
    Our virtue drives ’em o’er the field.
    We love ’em by too much desert,
    And oh! they fly us if we yield.
Ye gods! is there no charm in all the fair
To fix this wild, this faithless wanderer?

To J.G. On the News of His Marriage

BY EPHELIA

My Love? alas! I must not call you Mine,
But to your envy’d Bride that Name resign:
I must forget your lovely melting Charms,
And be for ever Banisht from your Arms:
For ever? oh! the Horror of that Sound!
It gives my bleeding Heart a deadly wound:
While I might hope, although my Hope was vain,
It gave some Ease to my unpitty’d Pain,
But now your Hymen doth all Hope exclude,
And but to think is Sin; yet you intrude
On every Thought; if I but close my Eyes,
Methinks your pleasing Form besides me lies;
With every Sigh I gently breath your Name,
Yet no ill Thoughts pollute my hallow’d Flame;
’Tis pure and harmless, as a Lambent Fire,
And never mingled with a warm Desire:
All I have now to ask of Bounteous Heaven,
Is, that your Perjuries may be forgiven:
That she who you have with your Nuptials blest,
As She’s the Happiest Wife, may prove the Best:
That all our Joys may light on you alone,
Then I can be contented to have none:
And never wish that you shou’d kinder be,
Than now and then, to cast a Thought on Me:
And, Madam, though the Conquest you have won,
Over my Strephon, has my hopes undone;
I’le daily beg of Heaven, he may be
Kinder to You, than he has been to Me.

The Slighted Lady

BY ANNA WICKHAM

There was a man who won a beautiful woman.
Not only was she lovely, and shaped like a woman,
But she had a beautiful mind.
She understood everything the man said to her,
She listened and smiled,
And the man possessed her and grew in ecstasy,
And he talked while the woman listened and smiled.

But there came a day when the woman understood even
more than the man had said ;
Then she spoke, and the man, sated with possession, and
weary with words, slept.
He slept on the threshold of his house.
The woman was within, in a small room.

Then to the window of her room
Came a young lover with his lute,
And thus he sang :

" O, beautiful woman, who can perfect my dreams,
Take my soul into your hands
Like a clear crystal ball.
Warm it to softness at your breast,
And shape it as you will.
We two shall sing together living songs,
And walk our Paradise, in an eternal noon---
Come, my Desire, I wait."

But the woman, remembering the sleeper and her faith,
Shook her good head, to keep the longing from her eyes,
At which the lover sang again, and with such lusty rapture
That the sleeper waked,
And, listening to the song, he said :
" My woman has bewitched this man---
He is seduced.
What folly does he sing ?
This woman is no goddess, but my wife ;
And no perfection, but the keeper of my house.'*

Whereat the woman said within her heart ;
" My husband has not looked at me for many days---
He has forgot that flesh is warm,
And that the spirit hungers.
I have waited long within the house ;
I freeze with dumbness, and I go."

Then she stept down from her high window
And walked with her young lover, singing to his lute.

To my Dear and Loving Husband

BY ANNE BRADSTREET

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold
Or all the riches that the east doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompetence.
Thy love is such I can no way repay.
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so persever
That when we live no more, we may live ever.

The Wish

BY MARY CHUDLEIGH

Would but indulgent Fortune send
To me a kind, and faithful Friend,
One who to Virtue's Laws is true,
And does her nicest Rules pursue;
One Pious, Lib'ral, Just and Brave,
And to his Passions not a Slave;
Who full of Honour, void of Pride,
Will freely praise, and freely chide;
But not indulge the smallest Fault,
Nor entertain one slighting Thought:
Who still the same will ever prove,
Will still instruct ans still will love:
In whom I safely may confide,
And with him all my Cares divide:
Who has a large capacious Mind,
Join'd with a Knowledge unconfin'd:
A Reason bright, a Judgement true,
A Wit both quick, and solid too:
Who can of all things talk with Ease,
And whose Converse will ever please:
Who charm'd with Wit, and inward Graces,
Despises Fools with tempting Faces;
And still a beauteous Mind does prize
Above the most enchanting Eyes:
I would not envy Queens their State,
Nor once desire a happier Fate.

The Unfortunate Damsel

BY MRS. FLEETWOOD HABERGHAM

I sowed the seeds of love
To blossom all the spring,
In April, May, or else in June,
When the small birds do sing:
A gardener standing by,
I desired him to choose for me;
He picked out the lily, the violet, and pink,
But I refused all three.
The lily I refused,
Because it faded so soon;
The violet and pink I overlooked,
Resolved was to tarry till June:
In June the red roses bud,
Oh, that is a lover for me;
But I have often aimed at the red rose-bud,
And I have gained the willow tree.
The gardener standing by,
He prayed me to have a care,
For the thorn that grew on the red rose-bush,
A venomous thorn they were:
A venomous thorn indeed,
For still I feel the smart;
And every time I did it touch,
It pricked my tender heart.
Away you fading flowers,
No more I will you touch,
That all the world may plainly see
I loved one flower too much.

To One That Asked Me Why I Lov’d J.G.

BY EPHELIA

Why do I love? Go, ask the Glorious Sun
Why every day it round the world doth run;
Ask Thames and Tiber, why they Ebb and Flow:
Ask Damask Roses why in June they blow;
Ask Ice and Hail, the reason, why they’re Cold:
Decaying Beauties, why they will grow Old
They’ll tell thee, Fate, that every thing doth move,
Inforces them to this, and me to Love.
There is no Reason for our Love or Hate;
’Tis irresistible, as Death or Fate;
’Tis not his face; I’ve sence enough to see,
That is not good, though doated on by me;
Not is’t his Tongue, that has this Conquest won;
For that at least is equall’d by my own:
His Carriage can to none obliging be,
’Tis Rude, Affected, full of Vanity:
Stragely Ill-natur’d, Peevish and Unkind,
Unconstant, False, to Jealousie inclin’d,
His Temper cou’d not have so great a Pow’r,
’Tis mutable, and changes every hour:
Those vigorous Years that Women so Adore,
Are past in him: he’s twice my Age, and more;
And yet I love this false, this worthless Man
With all the Passion that a Woman can;
Doat on his Imperfections, though I spy
Nothing to Love; I Love, and know not why.
Since ’tis Decreed in the dark Book of Fate
That I shou’d Love, and he shou’d be ingrate.

The Courtship

BY ANN BERESFORD

I am curiously stirred
by the landscape
as I wait lazily for
my lover
lazily in the hot sun

no hurry
life goes on
time to admire
my long thin arms
they blend with
the long thin grass
their frailty is deceptive
my lover will not be the first
to know their strength

strange to consider
how small he always is
true, he moves gracefully
but never quick enough

when he is joined to me
too absorbed to notice
my knife-like grip
I will eat him inch by inch
I'll not need another meal for hours

afterwards I will sit quietly
under the exotic leaves
raising my arms again
as if praying.