Phoebe Carey

Sept 4, 1824 - 1871



by Phoebe Carey

I'm glad you don't love him,
I really did fear
(Nay, frown not so terribly,
Nelly, my dear;)
His voice was so witching,
His eyes were so bright,
Though you did not yet love him,
I feared that you might!

So you're candid, now, Nelly,
You 're telling me true,
His voice never sounded
Bewitching to you.

Yet I sometimes have thought,
When you heard his soft tone,
That a little more tenderness
Spoke in your own.

And you 're sure you don't care, now,
My dear little elf,
Who else he talks love to,
So 't is not yourself.

Sometimes when your forehead
Such crimson would take,
I suspected -- no matter,
I've made a mistake.

Nay, do not now, Nelly,
O, do not be mad!
Since you say you don't love him,
It makes me so glad;
Because I would never
Have told it, you see,
But honestly, darling,
He's talked love to me!

Are you glad he has done
What you wished him to do, --
That he talked about love
To another than you?
Yes, you surely must feel
Quite a sense of relief; --
But those tears are not joyous,
That sob is like grief!

He said he had hidden it
Long in his breast;
How you tremble! -- nay, listen,
I'll tell you the rest.
He said, just as true
As I sit here alive,
That he loved you, dear Nelly, --
Aha! you revive!


The Poems Of Phoebe Carey
Copyright 187_?
New York: Hurst And Company
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