Dear Mother, as you write, I see How glad and thankful I should be For such a husband. Yet to tell The truth, I am so miserable! How could he -- I remember, though, He never said he loved me! No, He is so right that all seems wrong I've done and thought my whole life long! I've done and thought my whole life long! I'm grown so dull and dead with fear That Yes and No, when he is near, Is all I have to say. He's quite Unlike what most would call polite, And yet, when first I saw him come To tea in Aunt's fine drawing-room, He made me feel so common! Oh, How dreadful if he thinks me so! It's no use trying to behave To him. His eye, so kind and grave, Sees through and through me! Could not you, Without his knowing that I knew, Ask him to scold me now and then? Mother, it's such a weary strain The way he has of treating me As if 'twas something fine to be A woman; and appearing not To notice any faults I've got! I know he knows I'm plain, and small, Stupid, and ignorant, and all Awkward and mean; and, by degrees, I see a beauty which he sees, When often he looks strange awhile, Then recollects me with a smile. I wish he had that fancied Wife, With me for Maid, now! all my life To dress her out for him, and make Her looks the lovelier for his sake; To have her rate me till I cried; Then see her seated by his side, And driven off proudly to the Ball; Then to stay up for her, whilst all The servants were asleep; and hear At dawn the carriage rolling near, And let them in; and hear her laugh, And boast, he said that none was half So beautiful, and that the Queen, Who danced with him the first, had seen And noticed her, and ask'd who was That lady in the golden gauze? And then to go to bed, and lie In a sort of heavenly jealousy, Until 'twas broad day, and I guess'd She slept, nor knew how she was bless'd. Pray burn this letter. I would not Complain, but for the fear I've got Of going wild, as we hear tell Of people shut up in a cell, With no one there to talk to. He, Must never know he is loved by me The most; he'd think himself to blame; And I should almost die for shame. If being good would serve instead Of being graceful, ah, then, Fred -- But I, myself, I never could See what's in women's being good; For all their goodness is to do Just what their nature tells them to. Now, when a man would do what's right, He has to try with all his might. Though true and kind in deed and word, Fred's not a vessel of the Lord. But I have hopes of him; for, oh, How can we ever surely know But that the very darkest place May be the scene of saving grace! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT SAGAMORE HILL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE PINES AND THE SEA by CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH THE PRAYER OF AGASSIZ by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER NOT DEAD, BUT GONE BEFORE by ANTIPHANES LILIES: 8 by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |