Another Way of Love

   June was not over
     Though past the fall,
   And the best of her roses
     Had yet to blow,
     When a man I know
   (But shall not discover,
     Since ears are dull,
   And time discloses)
Turned him and said with a man’s true air,
Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as ‘twere,—-
’If I tire of your June, will she greatly care?'
   Well, dear, in-doors with you!
     True! serene deadness
   Tries a man’s temper.
     What’s in the blossom
     June wears on her bosom?
   Can it clear scores with you?
     Sweetness and redness.
   _Eadem semper!_
Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly!
If June mend her bower now, your hand left unsightly
By plucking the roses,—-my June will do rightly.
   And after, for pastime,
     If June be refulgent
   With flowers in completeness,
     All petals, no prickles,
     Delicious as trickles
   Of wine poured at mass-time,—-
     And choose One indulgent
   To redness and sweetness:
Or if, with experience of man and of spider,
June use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridder,
And stop the fresh film-work,—-why, June will consider.
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