Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Nov. 5, 1850 - Oct. 30, 1919



by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

We walk upon the sea-shore, you and I,
Just two alone,
you say. But there are three;
A tall and manly form is walking nigh,
And as I move, he moves along with me.

Your shadow? No, for shadows do not speak,
And he is speaking, tenderly and low,
Words that bring crimson blushes to my cheek,
You cannot hear, the sea is sounding so.

But it is strange you cannot see him there,
My darling with the broad and snowy brow.
You never saw a face so grandly fair.
I'll stand aside -- there, do you see him now?

No! well you jest, or else you're growing blind;
Blue eyes are never very strong, you know;
This summer sun and wind are bad combined,
You should not walk here where the sea gales blow.

Ah, he who walks here at my side has eyes
That sun, nor wind can dim their eagle sight,
You've seen the thunder cloud in stormy skies --
Well, so his eyes are, full of purple light.

Dead! what a foolish thing for you to say,
When I can see him walking at my side;
Just as we walked a year ago to-day,
When first I promised him to be his bride.

Go, leave us. We had rather be alone.
Your words are wild to-day. Go, let me be
With him a while. And when an hour has flown
I'll follow you. But now he waits for me.


Copyright 1873
Hauser & Storey, Milwaukee
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