  O WRINKLED, withered little flower, You were so pretty and so blue The day that you were given me, By Mariana, fair and true. Angry and jealous had I been That fragrant budding day in spring— Strange, that a man should let his mind Be vexed by some light simple thing! She had gone walking with my friend, A splendid fellow, with a face As handsome as Apollo’s own, And figure full of manly grace. And seeing that he gave to her What seemed to me a tender gaze, And that she was in happy mood, My jealousy was all ablaze. I called her traitor in my heart— Was she not mine by every right? Had I not held her to my breast, And whispered things one starlight night? I strode away to where the waves Rushed on the beach with sullen roar, She cared not for me, why should I Think fondly of her any more? Yet, when she softly called my name, My heart beat quick with love and wrath, And through the twilight soft and dim I saw her coming down the path. Then love was dumb, and anger spake, The eyes of her grew proud and shy, I called her heartless, and coquette— What but a jealous fool was I? She turned to leave me, then I grew Ashamed of all my bitter speech, But she seemed now so far from me, I could not hope her grace to reach. “Wait, Mariana, wait, and say Farewell to one you hold in scorn!” I cried, “and give to him I pray One of the flowers you have worn.” O, Violet, she lifted you Up with her slender finger tips, Laid you for one brief moment’s space Against the redness of her lips. Then gave you softly to my hand— O, Violet, so sweet and shy! In all God’s universe there was No happier man, I wot, than I. |
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