Alexis calls me cruel-
The rifted crags that hold
The gathered ice of winter,
He says, are not more cold.
When even the very blossoms
Around the fountain's brim,
And forest walks, can witness
The love I bear to him.
I would that I could utter
My feelings without shame
And tell him how I love him
Nor wrong my virgin fame.
Alas! to seize the moment
When heart inclines to heart,
And press a suit with passion
Is not a woman's part.
If man come not to gather
The roses where they stand,
They fade among their foliage,
They cannot seek his hand.
The Waterfowl is very beautiful, but still not entitled to the
admiration which it has occasionally elicited. There is a fidelity and
force in the picture of the fowl as brought before the eve of the
mind, and a fine sense of effect in throwing its figure on the
background of the "crimson sky," amid "falling dew," "while glow the
heavens with the last steps of day." But the merits which possibly
have had most weight in the public estimation of the poem, are the
melody and strength of its versification, (which is indeed
excellent) and more particularly its completeness.
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