WHAT thoughts are mine when she is gone, And I sit dreaming here, alone; My fingers are the little people That climb her breast to its red steeple; And, there arrived, they play until She wakes and murmurs -- "Love, be still." She is the patient, loving mare, And I the colt to pull her hair; She is the deer, and my desire Pursues her like a forest fire; She is the child, and does not know What a fierce bear she calls "Bow-wow." But, Lord, when her sweet self is near, These very thoughts cause all my fear. I sit beneath her quiet sense, And each word fears its consequence; So "Puss, Puss, Puss!" I cry. At that I hang my head and stroke the cat. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOPE (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON OUR COUNTRY'S CALL by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE FLIGHT OF THE GEESE by CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS A DEDICATION by ALFRED TENNYSON THE COMET by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 8 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH UNDER THE PINES by ARTHUR STANLEY BOURINOT VERSES, SPOKEN EXTEMPORE AT THE MEETING OF A CLUB by JOHN BYROM OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 3 by THOMAS CAMPION |