A Rhyme For The Time Poem by Emily Pfeiffer

What is to say, had best be said,
So, Lilian, look another way;
Just droop your eyes or turn your head,—
Let reason have due course to-day.
Well, well, this giddy time just past,
It has been, yes, it has been worth
The life we've spent on it so fast
That we seem beggars now on earth.
But let me argue out our case,—
My case,—since yours is all too plain,
So many press to fill my place
That, faith! my loss may be your gain.
Nay, do not look or speak just now,—
Man's reason is a thing so fine
The lightest touch may overthrow
The strongest chain he can combine;
And eyes there are, which meeting mine,
Mislead me like a marsh-fire light;—
Eyes with the glow and hue of wine
Like yours, can daze a man outright.
And deadlier peril when you speak
Awaits my boasted self-control,
For then there comes upon your cheek
An eddy which sucks in my soul!
How is it that I could behold
Your image better made in wax,
And—do not judge me over bold—
Could coldly gaze on it, and tax
The maker that he had not given
Some easy grace which should fulfil
My whole ideal? while now, oh heaven!
I see you perfect at your will.

But this is scarce the way to come
At any reasonable end;
Before I take you in the sum
I will resolve you, and so mend
My notion of you by a stern
Analysis of your pretensions;
By isolating facts we learn
To see them in their true dimensions.

A little woman, five feet two;
(Nay, love, I marked it on the wall,
And what the wall says must be true,
Though truly I had called you tall);
A maze of tawny hair, with eyes
That lurk beneath at whiles to daunt
With wicked brightness, but for size
And form, what are they? Eyes avaunt
Of dimples, would they keep but still,
One soon would weary, and then time
Turns them to wrinkles; he does ill,
I count it for his heaviest crime;
Still they are worse than nought, you see;
And for your waist,—band or no bands,—
No waist so slender ought to be,
It can be crushed between two hands.
Thus I withstand you when I dole
You out in parts, but—heart of youth,
Fire, folly, madness, on the whole
Are ye more far from sober truth
Than these and such-like ways men have
To put in doubt the thing they know,
And make their pathway to the grave
Decently dull with hollow show?

Pardon my earnestness; I smile,
Now seeing you so slight and small,
To think that it should take a mile
Of silk to cover you withal!
I would it were not so, and I
Might hope to win with honest toil
The vestments which should over-lie
Your beauty as its simple foil.
See, love, I smile again, I think
How in the happy days just passed
Your dainty share of meat and drink
Had made a hermit's lenten fast;
I would that I might take you home
And keep you as we keep a bird;
But there are laws that where you come—
You women—there must come a herd
That we must feast at periods,
That we must dress for, live for, die for;—
I dare not hope against such odds
To win the modest ends I sigh for.

Now, sweet, I listen. What? You say
You do not care for all this throng?
That you and I might take our way,
Nor think we did our neighbour wrong
If we should only strive to feed,
To house, and clothe our happy selves,
With, now and then, for some great need,
A morsel from our frugal shelves?
You social Titan! would you dare
The world's exactions thus to flout?
But what if silk fail everywhere,
And cotton may not eke it out?
Ah! how is this? I hear you laugh,—
I will not see;—how say you then,—
That women never yet were half
So eager for their toys as men?
That in your wildest fancy-flights
There is more measure than in ours;
That you would lie on thorns for nights
About an unpaid bill for flowers;
That all that marks the maddest she,
Who wanders thriftless out of bounds
In matters of finance, will be
A difference of some few poor pounds,—
Tens to our hundreds? Then you joke
About our love of bygone things:
Old pictures, grim with priceless smoke,
Old wines, their cob-webs and bees'-wings;
Till pressing harder, you declare
That, like the gondolas of Venice,
The dusky garb which now we wear,
Saves us from dangers that would menace
Our sightlier persons through the clashing
Of rival suits; that in our case
'Tis well, for swords were always flashing
When men wore silks and Flanders lace!
Then, almost breathless, you sum up:
Antiques, plate, clubs, the opera stall,
The horse that is to win the cup,
The coup that is to pay for all,
Cigars and yachting, needy friends,
And building manias;—he who searches,
You say, will find 'tis man who spends—
Save in the luxury of churches!

No more? You've done? Why, child, so pale?
Nay, not 'with counting up men's crimes;'
Lilian, throw down this idle veil,
Jesting is bitter work at times.
Do I but dream I can discern
A secret hid with female art?
Speak, and God's truth! By heaven, I burn
To strain you with it to my heart.
'No more than this,' you say, 'the hold
Your feeble woman's will can take
On such things, is so slight, so cold,
You could release them for love's sake.'

Now let me pause upon that word,
I feel as one before whose eyes
A mist, whereby his life seemed blurred,
Had parted and revealed the skies.
Nay, turn not now away, I must,
Yes, must, will, read your face, and know
Whether this wild new hope and trust
Will bear the light; one moment, so;
Now veil your eyes, as best you may,
I've seen the thing I wished to see,
My soul retires within, I pray
That what your love divines in me,
Mine may accomplish; I shall prize
Myself less meanly, having found
My humble image throned in eyes
That frame it with a glory round;
For there I show, so brave, so strong,
A true man conquering the place
Which shall be ours amid the throng,
The hurtling crowd of fortune's race;
And there I show as wise and pure
As I shall be when we have trod
That path which some way hence is sure
To land us at the feet of God.
I take it that the only seer
Possessed of true divining powers,
Is this same love, who, trumpet-clear,
Now speaks in these two hearts of ours.
He tells me you are brave and true,
And fond, yes,—spite your fierce denial!—
And if he say as much to you
Of me—Oh, put me on my trial!
I would not be the fool to shrink
From danger to your outward fate,
While hurling back your love to sink
Your life beneath its costly freight.

I see, I see, that panther gaze,
It could deceive me once, but now
I know your little winsome ways,
They shall not fright me more, I vow.
The hand that would not feel its sting,
'Tis said, should boldly grasp the nettle.
Lie still, you little prickly thing,
You only put me on my mettle.
But, child, I fain would serve alone,
And keep you queen-like at my side;
I feel your burthen, not my own;
It presses on my love, and pride.
Still, God be praised! the woman's fate,
Who serves her turn for love, is finer,
More noble than the idle state
To which we blindly would consign her.
And so again, again I seal
Our contract, and thus nerved, thus blest,
I'll labour stoutly for your weal,
And trust your Maker for the rest.