A Girls's Sin - In Her Eyes
Cross child! red, and frowning so?
'I, the day just over,
Gave a lock of hair to--no!
How DARE you say, my lover?'
He asked you?--Let me understand;
Come, child, let me sound it!
'Of course, he WOULD have asked it, and--
And so--somehow--he--found it.
'He told it out with great loud eyes--
Men have such little wit!
His sin I ever will chastise
Because I gave him it.
'Shameless in me the gift, alas!
In him his open bliss:
But for the privilege he has
A thousand he shall miss!
'His eyes, where once I dreadless laughed,
Call up a burning blot:
I hate him, for his shameful craft
That asked by asking not!'
Luckless boy! and all for hair
He never asked, you said?
'Not just--but then he gazed--I swear
He gazed it from my head!
'His silence on my cheek like breath
I felt in subtle way;
More sweet than aught another saith
Was what he did not say.
'He'll think me vanquished, for this lapse,
Who should be above him;
Perhaps he'll think me light; perhaps--
Perhaps he'll think I--love him!
'Are his eyes conscious and elate,
I hate him that I blush;
Or are they innocent, still I hate--
They mean a thing's to hush.
'Before he nought amiss could do,
Now all things show amiss;
'Twas all my fault, I know that true,
But all my fault was his.
'I hate him for his mute distress,
'Tis insult he should care!
Because my heart's all humbleness,
All pride is in my air.
'With him, each favour that I do
Is bold suit's hallowing text;
Each gift a bastion levelled, to
The next one and the next.
'Each wish whose grant may him befall
Is clogged by those withstood;
He trembles, hoping one means all,
And I, lest perhaps it should.
'Behind me piecemeal gifts I cast,
My fleeing self to save;
And that's the thing must go at last,
For that's the thing he'd have.
'My lock the enforc-ed steel did grate
To cut; its root-thrills came
Down to my bosom. It might sate
His lust for my poor shame!
'His sifted dainty this should be
For a score ambrosial years!
But his too much humility
Alarums me with fears.
'My gracious grace a breach he counts
For graceless escalade;
And, though he's silent ere he mounts,
My watch is not betrayed.
'My heart hides from my soul he's sweet:
Ah dread, if he divine!
One touch, I might fall at his feet,
And he might rise from mine.
'To hear him praise my eyes' brown gleams
Was native, safe delight;
But now it usurpation seems,
Because I've given him right.
'Before I'd have him not remove,
Now would not have him near;
With sacrifice I called on Love,
And the apparition's Fear.'
Foolish to give it!--'Twas my whim,
When he might parted be,
To think that I should stay by him
In a little piece of me.
'He always said my hair was soft--
What touches he will steal!
Each touch and look (and he'll look oft)
I almost thought I'd feel.
'And then, when first he saw the hair,
To think his dear amazement!
As if he wished from skies a star,
And found it in his casement.
'He's kiss the lock--and I had toyed
With dreamed delight of this:
But ah, in proof, delight was void--
I could not SEE his kiss!'
So, fond one, half this agony
Were spared, which my hand hushes,
Could you have played, Sweet, the sweet spy,
And blushed not for your blushes!
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Comments about this poem (A Girls's Sin - In Her Eyes by Francis Thompson )
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
((13 March 1941 – 9 August 2008)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth