Phoebe Carey

Sept 4, 1824 - 1871


The Confession

by Phoebe Carey

In the moonlight of the Spring time,
Trembling, blushing, half afraid,
Heard I first the fond confession
From the sweet lips of the maid.

As the roses of the Summer,
By his warm embraces won,
Take a fairer, richer color
From the glances of the sun; --

So as, gazing, earnest, anxious,
I besought her but to speak,
Deep and deeper burned the crimson
Of the blushes in her cheek; --

Till at last, with happy impulse,
Impulse that she might not check,
As it softly thrilled and trembled,
Stole her white arm round my neck; --

And with lips, that, half averted
From the lips that bent above,
Met the kiss of our betrothal,
Told the maiden of her love.


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