Wagner, Madge Morris, 1862-1924 / 2008-11-30 00:00:00
You're a man in each outward sense, I trow,
With the stamp of a god on your peerless brow.
You hold my hand in your thrilling clasp,
And my heart grows weak in your subtle grasp,
Till I blush in the light of your tender eyes,
And dream of a far-of paradise--
Almost forgetting that ever from there
Another was turned in her bleak despair.
But the wrinkles will grow, and the roses go--
I will answer you, love, my love, you know,
When the roses go.
* * * * *
THE DIFFERENCE.
With odds all against him, struggling to gain,
From fortune a name, with life to maintain,
Toiling in sunshine, toiling in rain,
Never waiting a blessing Heaven-sent,
Working and winning his way as he went--
Whether he starved, or sumptuously fared,
Nobody knew and nobody cared.
With success-crowned effort that fate had defied,
That wrought out from fortune what favor denied,
Standing aloof from the world in his pride;
The niche he has carved on fame's slippery wall
Friends are proclaiming with heraldry-call.
His Croesus-bright scepter has magical sway,
Yester's indifference solicits to-day.
His daring his triumph, how daily he fares,
Every one knows, and anxiously cares.
BEWARE.
Beautiful maiden,
So daintily fair,
Thy rose-hued lips,
Thy soft, flowing hair,
Symmetric perfection,
Sweet, winning face,
The charms that thou wearest
A palace might grace;
And yet thy bright beauty
May wreck and despair.
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