Fourteen sonnets and poems/My Sweetheart


My Sweetheart

TO I. D. H.

I KNOW a lassie,
And she's a dear,
I write and visit her
Now and then, yet fear
I ne'er shall speak my love.

Tell me her excellencies
Did you say?
No pen that ever wrote
Can her portray,
Or half her worth disclose.

She is sweet and true and real,
And good and wise;
All beauty known,
Or that you may surmise,
Is realized in her.

Just what she is,
You see I cannot tell;

Nor what she's like,
  Tho' that might serve as well,
If it I dared attempt.

Perhaps if I could here
The muse indite,
What might be like her
I could partly write,
And of her give a glimpse.

Did not bleak winter's
Storms and clouds obscure
At times his glorious
Face and pure,
The sun might be like her.

Did spring remain forever
Fresh and young,
Replete with daisies
To be walked among,—
Then spring would be like her.

Could summer always keep
Her rich renown,
And ne'er succumb to
Autumn's frost and frown,—
Then summer were like her.

Did azure skies, calm fields,
And woods of gold,
That fall reveals, their
Course continuous hold,—
Then autumn were like her.

Did roses bloom beyond
The reach of blight;
Song birds remain unchanged
By migrant flight,—
With these she might compare.

Did not deep winter snow,
So white and clear,
Make haste in muddy
Thaws to disappear,—
Snow somewhat were like her.

Better than all that nature
Yet hath shown,
Or art, she stands secure,
Supreme alone,—
Of whom to you I write.