Poems (Prescott)/The Confession

by Mary Newmarch Prescott

THE CONFESSION

Through birchen woods the sun let down
 A crowd of golden rays;
On Nature's face there was no frown
 That fairest of fair days;
When my love she said, bending her head,
 While a blush her cheek did cover,
"Through dark days and fair, through hope and despair,
 I shall love you well, oh, my lover!"

The lark sang from his cloud above,
 Rapt in an ecstasy;
The bird on the bough twittered of love,
 And the winds did seem to sigh.
"Oh, my love," I said, o'er her bended head,
 While the blush her cheek did cover,
"In weal or in woe, only love, we know,
 Can love's counterpart discover!"

Well, love, like the wind, it comes and goes,
 And who shall dare complain
If the lover's heart, like a summer's rose,
 Blossom never again?
The lark that sang his clouds among
 In no wise did surpass
The heavenly note that died in my throat
 To the murmur of "Alas!"

Is it not enough that the open rose
 Takes the sun to its heart,
Though every angry gale that blows
 Tear its frail leaves apart?
Is it not enough, is it not enough
 (Oh, heart, thy sighing smother!),
That I'd rather be wronged, love, by thee
 Than righted by another?