"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...AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE BEAUTIFUL SNOW by JOHN WHITAKER WATSON DARBY AND JOAN by FREDERIC EDWARD WEATHERLY WALT WHITMAN'S CAUTION by WALT WHITMAN PANEGYRIC by ABU BAKR MUHUMMAD TIME'S REVENGE by AGATHIAS SCHOLASTICUS DAWN ON THE HILLS (FROM A HOTEL WINDOW) by LILLIAN ATCHERSON THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 37. TO ONE WHO WOULD 'REMAIN FRIENDS' by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |