[WHICH HAPPENED TO BE HER BIRTHDAY AND NEW YEAR'S DAY] A KNIFE, dear girl, cuts love, they say-- Mere modish love perhaps it may; For any tool of any kind Can separate what was never joined. The knife that cuts our love in two Will have much tougher work to do: Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit Down to the vulgar size of merit; To level yours with common taste, Must cut a world of sense to waste; And from your single beauty's store, Clip what would dizen out a score, The self-same blade from me must sever Sensation, judgement, sight--for ever! All memory of endearments past, All hope of comforts long to last, All that makes fourteen years with you A summer--and a short one too! All that affection feels and fears, When hours, whithout you, seem like years. 'Till that be done,--and I'd as soon Believe this knife would clip the moon,-- Accept my present undeterred, And leave their proverbs to the herd. If in a kiss--delicious treat! Your lips acknowledge the receipt; Love, fond of such substantial fare, And proud to play the glutton there, All thoughts of cutting will disdain, Save only--'cut and come again.' |