Poems (Chitwood)/A Whispered Warning
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A WHISPERED WARNING.
God save thee, dear one! thrills my heart with fear
For thine own precious sake. Put down the cup!
Its beaded rim should never kiss thy lips—
Those rosy lips whose full, dark cherry red
From honeyed blossoms well might tempt the bee
To come and taste their sweetness. Art thou safe?
I know not how to answer.
For thine own precious sake. Put down the cup!
Its beaded rim should never kiss thy lips—
Those rosy lips whose full, dark cherry red
From honeyed blossoms well might tempt the bee
To come and taste their sweetness. Art thou safe?
I know not how to answer.
The wild bird
May hover o'er the net, and yet escape
To charm the ear with singing; the shy fawn
May rest its dainty limbs and fall asleep
Beneath the dingle's foliage, while, near by,
Some savage beast is bellowing on the winds,
Hungry for blood; and yet awake in time
To gain the distant valley. The fair child
May walk along a deep, black precipice
And gather flowers, the while the glistening sands
Shelve out 'neath every footfall, and yet be
Sleeping secure in its own bed, at night,
Without a shadowed dream.
May hover o'er the net, and yet escape
To charm the ear with singing; the shy fawn
May rest its dainty limbs and fall asleep
Beneath the dingle's foliage, while, near by,
Some savage beast is bellowing on the winds,
Hungry for blood; and yet awake in time
To gain the distant valley. The fair child
May walk along a deep, black precipice
And gather flowers, the while the glistening sands
Shelve out 'neath every footfall, and yet be
Sleeping secure in its own bed, at night,
Without a shadowed dream.
And so may'st thou
Walk with a smile along the fearful pit
Bridged o'er with blossoms, listening to the song
Whose syren tones have drawn so many down
To the deep grave of Death; and yet escape—
But, oh the fearful chances!
Walk with a smile along the fearful pit
Bridged o'er with blossoms, listening to the song
Whose syren tones have drawn so many down
To the deep grave of Death; and yet escape—
But, oh the fearful chances!
My true friend,
For love's sweet sake, beware! Thy noble step
Must never be unsteady; thy dark eyes,
Whose glances thrill the heart, must never glare
With bloodshot brightness. Thine alluring voice,
So deep and passionate, and so music-like
In eloquence sublime, must never grow
Hoarse with the serpent's sting.
For love's sweet sake, beware! Thy noble step
Must never be unsteady; thy dark eyes,
Whose glances thrill the heart, must never glare
With bloodshot brightness. Thine alluring voice,
So deep and passionate, and so music-like
In eloquence sublime, must never grow
Hoarse with the serpent's sting.
To think of thee—
Perfection's fair ideal realized—
Falling within the pit where Ruin sits
Feeding upon her victims day and night,
Is more than heart can bear. Frown not, my friend,
And say thou art secure. I fear for thee
With a most jealous fear, and with a heart
Filled to the brim with prayer, I ask for thee—
While the blue sky is blazoned o'er with stars,
While the white moon is softly sinking down
Into her dewy bed of amethyst—
Strength to resist temptation.
Perfection's fair ideal realized—
Falling within the pit where Ruin sits
Feeding upon her victims day and night,
Is more than heart can bear. Frown not, my friend,
And say thou art secure. I fear for thee
With a most jealous fear, and with a heart
Filled to the brim with prayer, I ask for thee—
While the blue sky is blazoned o'er with stars,
While the white moon is softly sinking down
Into her dewy bed of amethyst—
Strength to resist temptation.
O'er thy heart
Love's angel keeps her vigil. A soft hand,
Light as a seraph's, leads thee on thy way;
And may that way be pleasant as the path
Of velvet mosses in the meadow-land
Where runs the summer rill, until each wave
Repeats, in whispered ripples, syllables
Of many a wordless poem, low and soft,
Heard by the shy young birds and drowsy bees,
And danced to by the zephyrs.
Love's angel keeps her vigil. A soft hand,
Light as a seraph's, leads thee on thy way;
And may that way be pleasant as the path
Of velvet mosses in the meadow-land
Where runs the summer rill, until each wave
Repeats, in whispered ripples, syllables
Of many a wordless poem, low and soft,
Heard by the shy young birds and drowsy bees,
And danced to by the zephyrs.