Poems (Storrie)/Might is Right
Might is Right.
There ran a whisper through the nodding grass—
"Along this upland she will surely pass,"
There rose a murmur in the sheoak glade—
"Beneath us she may haply pause for shade,"
And sweet epacris blushed a lovelier red,
"Perhaps she'll stoop and gather me," it said,
But one warm zephyr from the ardent south
Said boldly—
"I shall kiss her on the mouth."
But I, alas! no happy grass am I
To feel her footstep as she passes by,
No tree to shield her, no sweet woodland flower
To lie upon her bosom for an hour.
Then must I like the breeze grow bold and take
Her heart itself, and might my right shall make.
"Along this upland she will surely pass,"
There rose a murmur in the sheoak glade—
"Beneath us she may haply pause for shade,"
And sweet epacris blushed a lovelier red,
"Perhaps she'll stoop and gather me," it said,
But one warm zephyr from the ardent south
Said boldly—
"I shall kiss her on the mouth."
But I, alas! no happy grass am I
To feel her footstep as she passes by,
No tree to shield her, no sweet woodland flower
To lie upon her bosom for an hour.
Then must I like the breeze grow bold and take
Her heart itself, and might my right shall make.