Maurine: Part 04 - Song: Her Love
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The sands upon the ocean side
That change about with every tide,
And never true to one abide,
A woman’s love I liken to.
The summer zephyrs, light and vain,
That sing the same alluring strain
To every grass blade on the plain—
A woman’s love is nothing more.
The sunshine of an April day
That comes to warm you with its ray,
But while you smile has flown away—
A woman’s love is like to this.
God made poor woman with no heart,
But gave her skill, and tact, and art,
And so she lives, and plays her part.
We must not blame, but pity her.
She leans to man—but just to hear
The praise he whispers in her ear,
Herself, not him, she holdeth dear—
Oh, fool! to be deceived by her.
To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs
The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts,
Then throws them lightly by and laughs,
Too weak to understand their pain.
As changeful as the winds that blow
From every region, to and fro,
Devoid of heart, she cannot know
The suffering of a human heart.
I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian’s eyes
Saw the slow colour to my forehead rise;
But lightly answered, toying with my fan,
“That sentiment is very like a man!
Men call us fickle, but they do us wrong;
We’re only frail and helpless, men are strong;
And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing
And make a shroud out of their suffering,
And drag the corpse about with them for years.
But we?—we mourn it for a day with tears!
And then we robe it for its last long rest,
And being women, feeble things at best,
We cannot dig the grave ourselves. And so
We call strong-limbed New Love to lay it low:
Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sends
To do this service for her earthly friends,
The trusty fellow digs the grave so deep
Nothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep.”
The laugh that followed had not died away
Ere Roy Montaine came seeking me to say
The band was tuning for our waltz, and so
Back to the ball-room bore me. In the glow
And heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent,
And I grew faint and dizzy, and we went
Out on the cool moonlighted portico,
And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid head
Upon the shelter of his breast, and bent
His smiling eyes upon me, as he said:
“I’ll try the mesmerism of my touch
To work a cure: be very quiet now,
And let me make some passes o’er your brow.
Why, how it throbs! you’ve exercised too much!
I shall not let you dance again to-night.”
Just then before us, in the broad moonlight,
Two forms were mirrored: and I turned my face
To catch the teasing and mischievous glance
Of Helen’s eyes, as, heated by the dance,
Leaning on Vivian’s arm, she sought this place.
“I beg your pardon,” came in that round tone
Of his low voice. “I think we do intrude.”
Bowing, they turned, and left us quite alone
Ere I could speak or change my attitude.
