“ LOVE me, or I am slain! ” I cried, and meant
Bitterly true each word. Nights, morns, slipped by,
Moons, circling suns, yet still alive am I;
But shame to me, if my best time be spent
On this perverse, blind passion ! Are we sent
Upon a planet just to mate and die,
A man no more than some pale butterfly
That yields his day to nature’s sole intent ?
Or is my life but Marguerite’s ox-eyed flower,
That I should stand and pluck and fling away.
One after one, the petal of each hour,
Like a love-dreamy girl, and only say,
“Loves me,” and “loves me not,” and “loves me”? Nay!
Let the man’s mind awake to manhood’s power.
Andrew Hedbrooke.