I SAID it was a wilful, wayward thing, And so it is, fantastic and perverse! Which makes its sport of persons and of seasons, Takes its own way, no matter right or wrong. It is the bee that finds the honey out, Where least you dream't would seek the nectarous store. And 'tis an errant masker -- this same love -- That most outlandish, freakish faces wears To hide his own! Looks a proud Spaniard now; Now a grave Turk; hot Ethiopian next; And then phlegmatic Englishman; and then Gay Frenchman; by-and-by Italian, at All things a song; and in another skip, Gruff Dutchman; still is love behind the mask! It is a hypocrite! looks every way But that where lie its thoughts! will openly Frown at the thing it smiles in secret on; Shows most like hate, e'en when it most is love; Would fain convince you it is very rock When it is water! ice when it is fire! Is oft its own dupe, like a thorough cheat; Persuades itself 'tis not the thing it is; Holds up its head, pursues its brows, and looks Askant, with scornful lip, hugging itself That it is high disdain -- till suddenly It falls on its knees, making most piteous suit With hail of tears and hurricane of sighs, Calling on heaven and earth for witnesses That it is love, true love -- nothing but love! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PRELUDE; FOR GEOFFREY GORER by EDITH SITWELL A LEAVE-TAKING by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE FELISE by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THANKSGIVING HYMN by JOHN BYROM THE BRAVE ROLAND by THOMAS CAMPBELL |