This Means You
It isn’t the white clover blooming.
It isn’t the breath of the spring,
And I’d presuming to say the perfuming
Of roses could do such a thing;
And it isn’t all of them together
That makes me so glad to be here
That my soul hugs its tether through all sorts of
weather;
I think it’s just you. You’re a dear!
It’s the clasp of your cool hands at morning;
That laugh in the deeps of your eyes;
I hereby serve warning: That wretch deserves scorning
Who calls this a world full of lies!
Oh, your crinkled locks! Knot-scorning tresses!
Afloat and a-lift to each breeze!
Each touch of each tress is more soft than caresses,
More potent than wealth is to please!
“Than wealth is!” Dear girl, darkest shade is
Bright sunshine with you! Wealth is dross!
You peerless of ladies! were you beyond hades—
A rotten-bridged hades—I’d cross!
I’d come to you, clasp you, and love you!
Or, the rotten plank breaking, I’d fall!
For it’s that way I love you. And if, up above, you
Called to me, I’d come to your call.