Rondeau. - Pourquoi?

"Pourquoi," she breathed, then drooped her head,
(Pure snow-drifts to the sunset wed)
As all my weakness I confessed.
I shewed how I had done my best,
Though long ago I should have fled,
Knowing all hope, for me, was dead;
And now my heart would die, unfed.
She murmured low, (was it in jest?)
    "Pourquoi?"

That winsome face, all rosy red, -
I turned towards me, - gone was dread!
She came as birdlings to their nest
At eventide; so was I blest
By that one precious, softly-said
    "Pourquoi?"

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

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Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Noon.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley, Simple Poetry

To-Morrow.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley, Simple Poetry

Revulsion.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley, Simple Poetry

Pictures.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Rondeau. - For Our Love's Sake.

For our Love's sake I bid thee stay,
Sweet, ere the hours flee away,
Beneath the old acacia tree
That waves its blossoms quiveringly,
And think awhile of early May:

Of how the months have fled away,
And sunrise hour turned twilight gray,
While we have suffered smilingly
    For our Love's sake.

It may not be - that which we pray
For tearfully - but dare not say.
And yet if, Sweet, it may not be,
We still may suffer silently,
Watching our sunlight fade away,
    For our Love's sake.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Rondeau. - When Summer Comes.

When summer comes, and when o'er hill and lea
The sun's strong wooing glow hath patiently
Shed o'er the earth long days his golden dower,
And then, by force of his own loving power,
Drawn the hard frost, and left it passive, free
To give forth all its sweets untiringly,
Shall not the day rise fair for thee and me,
And all life seem but as an opening flower
    When summer comes?

The days move slowly, young hearts yearn to be
Together always, cannot brook to see
Their love-days pass, and void each sunny hour,
Yet may we smile, e'en when fate's storm-clouds lower,
Waiting fulfilment of our hearts' decree
    When summer comes.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

To-Morrow.

But one short night between my Love and me!
    I watch the soft-shod dusk creep wistfully
    Through the slow-moving curtains, pausing by
And shrouding with its spirit-fingers free
    Each well-known chair. There is a growing grace
    Of tender magic in this little place.

Comes through half-opened windows, soft and cool
    As Spring's young breath, the vagrant evening air,
    My day-worn soul is hushed. I fain would bear
No burdens on my brain to-night, no rule
    Of anxious thought; the world has had my tears,
    My thoughts, my hopes, my aims these many years;

This is Thy hour, and I shall sink to sleep
    With a glad weariness, to know that when
    The new day dawns I shall lay by my pen
Needed no more. If I, perchance, should weep
   ...

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Rondeau. - I Will Forget.

I will forget those days of mingled bliss
And dear delicious pain, - will cast from me
All dreams of what I know can never be,
Even the remembrance of that parting kiss.
I knew that some day it would come to this
In spite of all our sworn fidelity,
That I must banish even memory,
And, sorrowing, learn to say, nor say amiss
    I will forget.

I register this vow, and am content
That it be so. Ah me! - yet, if the door
Shut on our heaven might be asunder rent
Even now, and I could see the way we went,
I might retract my vow, and say no more
    I will forget.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Rondeau. - It Might Have Been.

It might have been so different a year
To what has been; the summer's guileless play
Not all a jest, comes back to me to-day
In added sweetness, and provokes a tear.
Strange pictures rise, pass on, and disappear.
Drawn from your tender words of yesterday
When, looking in my eyes in the old way
You told me of your life, how passing dear
    It might have been.

Useless to dream, more useless to regret!
We might have lived and loved, nor lost the glow
Of Love's first sweet intensity; - to let
These foolish fancies die I strive, - and yet
I still must count it happiness to know
    It might have been.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Barter

There is a long thin line of fading gold
    In the far West, and the transfigured leaves
    On some slight, topmost bough that sways and heaves
Hang limp and tremulous. Nor warm, nor cold
    The pungent air, and, 'neath the yellow haze,
    Show flushed and glad the wild, October ways.

There is a soft enchantment in the air,
    A mystery the Summer knows not, nor
    The sturdy, frost-crowned Winter. Nature wore
Her blandest smile to-day, as here and there
    I wandered, elf-beset, through wood and field
    And gleaned the glories of the autumn yield.

A bunch of purple aster, golden-rod
    Darkened by the first frost, a drooping spray
    Of scarlet barberry, and tall and gray
The silk-cored cotton with its bursting pod,
    Some tarnished m...

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley