Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/Caprice at Home

by Sarah Piatt

CAPRICE AT HOME.

No, I will not say good-bye—
 Not good-bye, nor anything.
He is gone. . . . I wonder why
 Lilacs are not sweet this spring.
 How that tiresome bird will sing!

I might follow him and say
 Just that he forgot to kiss
Baby, when he went away.
 Everything I want I miss.
 Oh, a precious world is this!

. . . What if night came and not he?
 Something might mislead his feet.
Does the moon rise late? Ah me!
 There are things that he might meet.
 Now the rain begins to beat:

So it will be dark. The bell?—
 Some one some one loves is dead.
Were it he———! I cannot tell
 Half the fretful words I said,
 Half the fretful tears I shed.

Dead? And but to think of death!—
 Men might bring him through the gate:
Lips that have not any breath,
 Eyes that stare———And I must wait!
 Is it time, or is it late?

I was wrong, and wrong, and wrong;
 I will tell him, oh, be sure!
If the heavens are builded strong,
 Love shall therein be secure;
 Love like mine shall there endure.

. . . Listen, listen—that is he!
 I'll not speak to him, I say.
If he choose to say to me,
 "I was all to blame to-day;
 Sweet, forgive me," why—I may!