Poem by Louisa Sarah Bevington

At My Word

I EVER said that I could pay high toll
For some dear sake held worthy, utterly;
It was the very hidden pride of me
To rate as gift the greed of my poor soul.
For lo! one day I seemed to near my goal,
And--"Here," I said, "my gift may given be,
For here is utmost sweet nobility,
And I must love it: it shall have my whole."

But, dear, such gift still savoured of my bliss,
And you would have my love--for freedom--lie
In sternest patience till its stress should die;
For love's last proof, forbear, forget the kiss,
And smile, forgetting. Ay, I do not sigh!
Since this you will, my heart must grant you this!

1. “Merle Wood”
2. The Poet’s Tear
3. Unperfected
4. O Ye Joys!
5. Revolution

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