Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/She and I
SHE AND I.
Now married half a score of years,
With children growing tall,
I muse on former hopes and fears,
On long past smiles and sighs and tears,
And bygone days recall.
Yes! twelve, twelve months have passed away,
Since “She and I” first met,
But still the dress she wore that day,
And almost all she chanced to say,
I well remember yet.
Of course I cannot tell if she
Was conscious of her power;
I know that on that day for me
Commenced a long captivity
Which lasts until this hour.
My love was faint and feeble then,
And almost self-denied;
Yet still I’d jealous promptings when
I chanced to witness other men
Attentive at her side.
And, oh! what jealous pangs I bore
As love increased in force;
I often turned and left her door,
With firm resolve to go no more,—
And went next day of course.
What trifling matters then inclined
My hopes to rise or fall;
It wasn’t difficult to find
A plea for my sad state of mind
In anything at all.
While I was in this wretched state,
Some friends, one summer day,
Arranged a little rural fête;
I made a sham of self-debate,
But went—I needn’t say.
Although I own that in my eyes
A pic-nic’s no great treat;
I don’t like gnats, or wasps, or flies,
Or dust that spreads, or damps that rise,
Or rain, or broiling heat.
Well! at this fête—tho’ what about
I’ve not discovered yet—
Clara began to sulk and pout,
And I, from sympathy, no doubt,
Began to fume and fret.
Our words were very sharp and curt,
We spoke, and nothing more;
And then, I always will assert,
That she began to laugh and flirt
With people by the score.
(I do sometimes assert it now—
It’s not a bit of use—
She positively won’t allow
One single thing, but asks me how
I can be such a goose.)
What happen’d next I cannot say,
Except from what I hear:
I’m told that I was very gay,
And chatter’d in the wildest way
With everybody near.
The sequence of events I own
I’ve never understood,
But when my mind regain’d its tone,
I found that we were quite alone,
And walking in a wood.
Yes, there we were, with no one by,
No sound the silence broke,
Till Clara gave a little sigh,
Which startled me so much that I
Took heart of grace, and spoke.
I sought a smile, I fear’d a frown,
But scarce had I begun,
When she, to veil her face, shook down
Those clust’ring curls, in shadow brown,
But golden in the sun.
Ah, then came bliss, so long deferr’d,
Which paid for everything!
What joy one little whisper’d word,
So low it scarcely can be heard,
Is large enough to bring!
O, what a calm, delicious change
From jealousy to rest!
And then the trifles to arrange,
So numerous, so sweet, and strange,
Which give love half its zest.
The slender ring, the stolen tress,
(Inestimable prize!)
The loving glance, the shy caress:
If such as these be foolishness,
I envy not the wise.
No bitter memories remain
Of all that stormy past;
May those who feel a kindred pain
By fortune’s kindly aid attain
A kindred joy at last!
C. P. William.