The Wife Of All Ages

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I DO not catch these subtle shades of feeling,
  Your fine distinctions are too fine for me;
This meeting, scheming, longing, trembling, dreaming,
  To me mean love, and only love, you see;
In me at least 'tis love, you will admit,
And you the only man who wakens it.


Suppose I yearned, and longed, and dreamed, and fluttered,
  What would you say or think, or further, do?
Why should one rule be fit for me to follow,
  While there exists a different law for you?
If all these fires and fancies came my way,
Would you believe love was so far away?


On all these other women--never doubt it--
  'Tis love you lavish, love you promised me!
What do I care to be the first, or fiftieth?
  It is the only one I care to be.
Dear, I would be your sun, as mine you are,
Not the most radiant wonder of a star.


And so, good-bye! Among such sheaves of roses
  You will not miss the flower I take from you;
Amid the music of so many voices
  You will forget the little songs I knew--
The foolish tender words I used to say,
The little common sweets of every day.


The world, no doubt, has fairest fruits and blossoms
  To give to you; but what, ah! what for me?
Nay, after all I am your slave and bondmaid,
  And all my world is in my slavery.
So, as before, I welcome any part
Which you may choose to give me of your heart.

© Edith Nesbit