Poems (Waldenburg)/A Letter

For works with similar titles, see Letter.
​
A LETTER. FROM THE FRENCH.
My lady; most gently you sayThat Time alters all in his range;But alas, do you know with each dayYou have changed with a still greater change?
Poor Time then you ought not to blame,For this night is as fair in this yearAs the last, and the stars just the same,The moon's crescent shining as clear!
The roses aglow in their bloomBlush yet from the love-words they heard,That you whispered to me in the gloomOf the branches, the night zephyrs stirred.
I reproach not! I would, 'though to-night,When you speak of Time's changes that moveO'er the world in their havoc and might,Consider a woman in love;
With the seasons she changes,; and takesA new love, with the year that is new;And he she thus lightly forsakes,Is the fool but of Time, so say you!
​
'Tis summer, the gentle winds blow,'Tis summer in life, too, with you;Perchance with the winter and snow,Your lovers and friends may be few.
And you may then, standing apartIn your solitude, ask as a boon,The comfort and love of a heart,That you lost in a far-away June!
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.