Another Way of Love

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          June was not over
               Though past the full,
          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.