TO A PHOTOGRAPH

How sceptical you look tonight: There is a sneer about your lips— A moth is near them—see! it sips, And now rejoicing takes to flight. Oh moth, I envy you that kiss; My lips are arid strangers now. Oh, I would take to flight, I vow, If I could revel in such bliss. Why do you look at me and frown? What have I done but love you well? Does she love me? Come, picture, tell— The moth returns, and flutters down Upon that blessed wavy hair. Oh, how I love each scented strand! How oft my lips would make a band To capture in a kiss, ensnare A lock of that dear crown of yours! Ah, well, be vexed with me, severe. Those eyes have never shed a tear; They follow me on restless tours, While I the night pace to and fro, Hour after hour, to pass away The dreary time before the day. Your eyes upon these journeys go, Watching, sternly. Picture, tell me— What sphinx are you? Speak once and show Some sign of pleasure. Let me know If you would from my company Be gone, and choose another one To be with you each day, each hour; Resting only—then in my power— When from the villages I run? Then cosily you rest between The folds of my best coat—from grime And soot set free. At evening time Alone I leave you here. How mean Of you to be so petulant! Not once of late have you beguiled A moody hour of mine and smiled. If I have sinned, it was not meant. Come, now be patient with me, friend. See, I will coax a smile—I’ll set You this way—that way—no smile yet? Just for a moment! Please unbend. Then I shall turn you now oblique— Ah! what a change! Your eyes are quite Like hers—they hold the heavens so bright— Those stars my lonely soul would seek. I nearly called you Hebe, then— You were so like, for just a span, As o’er your brow vibrations ran. So they oft do o’er Hebe’s, when Some mischief, brewing in her mind, Sends laughter ripples o’er her skin— Her mirth will out when mischief’s in. Where might you her resemblance find? Her laughter is a wondrous sound— Sorrow, sadness, find their level. Where do joy and gladness revel? Ah, where? Where Hebe can be found! You know her not; yet you are she Who made you negative. The match Is sometimes perfect. Did you catch Her glance when thoughts perhaps of me— Alas! that could not be. She knew Me not when you were fashioned, friend, And never dreamed where you would wend Mile after mile with me, to rue The day when you were sent to hear A million questions. Pity you? I do! No woman, false or true, Is in listening long your peer! Heavens! What have you heard me tell? What rapture have you witnessed—oft Despair—at which you ever scoffed? The gamut—all from heaven to hell— All passion’s swift vagaries seen— My longing, pleading, anxious nights, And day’s distracted hours. What fights With self, with selfishness between! Have you seen all, heard all, known all? Then you must be the wisest sphinx That wisdom new and ancient links. But you are silent as a wall Without a mark. So should it be. For she must never know what I When all alone go through. Now lie Down flat—there! Let me once more see Into your eyes, ere to that shore— Where sleep may be—I go tonight With thoughts of her, my joy’s delight, To lull me gently evermore.