Poems (Chitwood)/Confession and Justification

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

CONFESSION AND JUSTIFICATION.

"I'm not false, but I am fickle,"
 I did love you when I said so,"
Time cuts heart-flowers like a sickle,
 Would that yours had never bled so.

You do tartly call me traitor,
 Word doth bitter word inspire,
Once the lover, now the hater,
 You could see me in the fire.

It was no design—no treason
 That I wove love's ties about you,
I had been bereft of reason,
 Once, to think to live without you.

All your words were perfect honey,
 You thought oft, and I thought oft'er
We could live on love, not money;
 You were soft, and I some softer.

When we parted, life was ashes,
 You were love-sick, I no better,
'Twas a sight, the O's and dashes,
 Dears and doves, in every letter.

Time passed on, my heart grew colder,
 Other thoughts were in my bosom,
Love grew weaker, joy grew bolder,
 I a bee, the world a blossom.

I saw other pleasant faces,
 Not your own, but just as pretty,
Others bowed, with smiles and graces,
 Not your own, but just as witty.

Then I tried, with fear and trembling,
 To win back my thoughts coquettish,
But, I'll tell without dissembling—
 Solitude but made me pettish.

Others loomed indeed above you,
 And I think that I was fated,
For the more I tried to love you,
 Just the more I found I hated.

Then your locket grew more dusty,
 That I used to dim with kisses,
And your letters soiled and musty,
 Once the greatest of all blisses.

Now you see, you should not blame me,
 My own heart I did not fashion,
If 'tis fickle, do not shame me,
 Don't, dear, get in such a passion.

Do you know you used to vow me,
 That whate'er might be hereafter,
You would love me still; allow me
 To remind you, though with laughter.

Once I thought you "mild and pleasant
 As the zephyr 'mid the trees,"
But I live to know at present,
 You can "stir up quite a breeze."

Once I thought that nought could move you,
 Dove-like you were always cooing,
When of yore I used to love you,
 In those golden days of wooing.

What if love's soft chains had bound me
 To your fate in other hours,
Would not the to-day have found me
 Chained with iron, not with flowers.

Would'nt I have drooped with sorrow,
 Would'nt I have learned to fear you,
And in wedded life's to-morrow,
 Been "commanded" not to "dear" you.

Farewell, love, I'm glad I'm tickle,
 Glad that I'm inconstant-hearted,
Very glad that Time's sharp sickle
 With one blow our life-ways parted.

Pray do try your rage to smother,
 I will nevermore defame you;
May you live to love another,
 Who has skill enough to tame you.

One who'll prove to you instanter,
 That 'tis no small job to rule her,
Marry her—I will not haunt her,
 For I'd love to see you school her,

For you need to learn a lesson,
 Tho' your nature is so human;
Take this counsel and my blessing,—
 Never quarrel with a woman.