"MY love or hate -- choose which you will," He says; and o'er the window-sill The rose-bush, jostled by the wind, Rasps at his hands, close-clenched behind, As she makes answer, smiling clear As is the day, -- "Your hate, my dear!" An interval of silence -- so Intensely still, the cattle's low Across the field's remotest rim Comes like a near moan up to him, While o'er the open sill once more The rose-bush rasps him as before. Then, with an impulse strange and new To him, he says: "'Tis wise of you To choose thus -- for by such a choice You lose so little, that," -- his voice Breaks suddenly -- the rose-bush stirs -- But ah! his hands are -- safe in hers. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON DOUGLASS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR COMPLAINT OF THE ABSENCE OF HER LOVER BEING UPON THE SEA by HENRY HOWARD THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL IO VICTIS by WILLIAM WETMORE STORY TIPPERARY: 2. AS THE TRANSLATORS WOULD HAVE INTERLINED IT . . . by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |