BLACK CAT POEMS
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Clara Marcelle Farrar Greene
One loved her for her beauteous face,
Oh, very fair was she!
With humid eyes, a lily's grace,
And low and tenderly.
Her rare words fell, set slowly round
With her reluctant smile;
He knew not if or sight or sound,
Held most his heart in guile.
The cross he gave she kissed, and wore
Against her beating heart;
And inly promised nevermore
From it, or him, to part.
One, silent, worshipped her afar,
As he who looks above,
And only sees in heaven one star
Exalted by his
For him she wore a circled ring,
Unnamed and wordless sent;
She loved the shining, signal thing--
Her heart knew what it meant.
One moved her through her very
She knew her counterpart;
With strong and masterful control
Swayed he her woman's heart.
Upon her white throat's tenderness,
With passionate rubies set,
A glittering chain, with his caress,
Defied her to forget.
Hast thou not seen rose petals curled,
When half it seemed they knew
They held insphered the whole round world,
In every drop of dew?
She? Oh, her heart was the heart of a rose,
The gold and all were there:
And the drops of dew she drank--
She was so fatal fair!
She died: her waiting women came,
And whitely shrouded her;
With gentle praises called her name,
And softly did bestir.
The clinging hair, which when they drew
From off her fairest breast,
Love's mocking tokens, there in view,
Lay shining and confessed.
The circlet gleamed upon her hand,
Which tenderly they moved:
"True heart!" they sighed; so understand
The loving the beloved.
One bowed above her white headstone--
His soul with anguish riven,
"Sweet saint! she loved me--me alone,
She will be mine in Heaven!"
One sighed, with blanched lip, underbreath,
"Yet nothing now debars
Her soul from mine; there is no
She's mine among the stars."
And one through half the empty world
In very madness tore:
His storm of grief he reckless hurled
On fate forevermore.
"Just Heaven," he cried, "her glowing soul
Love fanned to flame with mine;
Shall Death that truest heart control?
She's mine--my love divine!"
Pink petals fall--the dew is spilled;
The gold heart runs to seed;
The soul is mocked, and love is chilled:
The rose-bush is a weed.
poems by Clara Marcelle Farrar Greene