  “I love her, yes,” the younger of them said, “I think her beautiful beyond compare; How proudly does she carry that small head, With all its wealth of silky night-black hair? And then her warm red mouth—I see it now— Was it not made for kisses? And her chin So round and firm—the smooth unwrinkled brow, Each cheek with such a cunning dimple in. She is so piquant, winsome, fair, and good, I could not choose but love her if I would. “Did I not love her well, think you her charms Would move my pulse in this delicious way, And make me long to fold her in my arms, Hold her love’s prisoner by night and day? ’Tis joy to think of her white-lidded eyes— So full of dreams, so full of tender speech— Her slender form—and yet, it were not wise To be too rash—come, let your wisdom teach. She is so piquant, winsome, fair, and good, I could not choose but love her if I would. “I fain would make her all my own, this maid, I love her well, but would it be quite right To risk so much? At times I grow afraid To lift her up to such a dizzy height. You know my prospects and you know my pride, (It is a weighty matter to be wed) And yet, I only know when at her side That life is rich in joy and bliss,” we said. “She is so piquant, winsome, fair, and good, I could not choose but love her if I would.” “I could not choose but love her if I would” You boast, but if you loved her you would say, “I would not choose but love her if I could,” So answered him the old man, stern and gray. “There’s passion in your words, but you have fears, Your high position! Ah! you are afraid! Boy, learn this truth from one of sober years, The man who really, truly, loves a maid Knows only two things well—no more, no less— Her matchless worth—his own unworthiness.” [Decorative image unavailable.] |
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