HOW can you speak to me so, Charlie! It isn't kind, nor right; You wouldn't have talked a year ago, As you have done to-night. You are sorry to see me sit and cry, Like a baby vexed, you say; When you didn't know I wanted a gift, Nor think about the day! But I'm not like a baby, Charlie, Crying for something fine; Only a loving woman pained, Could shed such tears as mine. For every Christmas time till now -- And that is why I grieve -- It was you that wanted to give, Charlie, More than I to receive. And all I ever had from you I have carefully laid aside; From the first June rose you pulled for me, To the veil I wore as a bride. And I wouldn't have cared to-night, Charlie, How poor the gift or small; If you only had brought me something to show That you thought of me at all. The merest trifle of any kind, That I could keep or wear; A flimsy bit of lace for my neck, Or a ribbon for my hair. Some pretty story of lovers true, Or a book of pleasant rhyme; A flower, or a holly branch, to mark The blessed Christmas time. But to be forgotten, Charlie! 'T is that that brings the tear; And just to think, that I haven't been Your wife but a single year! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LAMP OF LIFE by AMY LOWELL UNDER A PATCHED SAIL by MARIANNE MOORE THE RESOLVE by ALEXANDER BROME PARADISI GLORIA by THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS CHRIST THE CONSOLER by HENRY WILLIAMS BAKER RUSTIC CHILDHOOD by WILLIAM BARNES MAXIMS FOR THE OLD HOUSE: THE EAVES by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH IN HONOR OF BARNABE BARNES' 'FOUR BOOKS OF OFFICES': TO THE READER by THOMAS CAMPION |