FullReads

Undeceived,
Some careless words might open Vivian’s eyes
And spoil my plans. So reasoning in this wise,
To all their sallies I in jest replied,
To naught assented, and yet naught denied,
With Roy unchanged remaining, confident
Each understood just what the other meant.

If I grew weary of this double part,
And self-imposed deception caused my heart
Sometimes to shrink, I needed but to gaze
On Helen’s face: that wore a look ethereal,
As if she dwelt above the things material
And held communion with the angels. So
I fed my strength and courage through the days.
What time the harvest moon rose full and clear
And cast its ling’ring radiance on the earth,
We made a feast; and called from far and near,
Our friends, who came to share the scene of mirth.
Fair forms and faces flitted to and fro;
But none more sweet than Helen’s. Robed in white,
She floated like a vision through the dance.
So frailly fragile and so phantom fair,
She seemed like some stray spirit of the air,
And was pursued by many an anxious glance
That looked to see her fading from the sight
Like figures that a dreamer sees at night.
And noble men and gallants graced the scene:
Yet none more noble or more grand of mien
Than Vivian–broad of chest and shoulder, tall
And finely formed, as any Grecian god
Whose high-arched foot on Mount Olympus trod.
His clear-cut face was beardless; and, like those
Same Grecian statues, when in calm repose,
Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hair
Dark and abundant; lighted by large eyes
That could be cold as steel in winter air,
Or warm and sunny as Italian skies.

Weary of mirth and music, and the sound
Of tripping feet, I sought a moment’s rest
Within the lib’ry, where a group I found
Of guests, discussing with apparent zest
Some theme of interest–Vivian, near the while,
Leaning and listening with his slow, odd smile.
“Now, Miss La Pelle, we will appeal to you,”
Cried young Guy Semple, as I entered. “We
Have been discussing right before his face,
All unrebuked by him, as you may see,
A poem lately published by our friend:
And we are quite divided. I contend
The poem is a libel and untrue.
I hold the fickle women are but few,
Compared with those who are like yon fair moon
That, ever faithful, rises in her place
Whether she’s greeted by the flowers of June
Or cold and dreary stretches of white space.”

“Oh!” cried another, “Mr. Dangerfield,
Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield
The crown to Semple, who, ’tis very plain,
Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane.”

All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to me,
I answered lightly, “My young friend, I fear
You chose a most unlucky simile
To prove the truth of woman. To her place
The moon does rise–but with a different face
Each time she comes. But now I needs must hear
The poem read, before I can consent
To pass my judgment on the sentiment.”
All clamoured that the author was the man
To read the poem: and, with tones that said
More than the cutting, scornful words he read,
Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:

HER LOVE.

The sands upon the ocean side
That change about with every tide,
And never true to one abide,
A woman’s love I liken to.