Eliza Calvert Hall
"Contributor to Magazines." (Sharp)
One Way of Love
I cannot measure for thee, drop by drop,
Thy draught of love, my hands, dear, tremble so:
Behold the chalice, how the bright drops glow
And still I pour, although thou bid'st me stop,
Till the rich wine mounts to the goblet's top,
And the dry earth receives the overflow.
Too generous am I? Ah, say not so!
Love that doth count its gifts is a weak prop
Whereon to stay a weary human heart.
Yes, draw me closer, love. Perchance I may,
Clasped in thine arms, forget the dreaded day
When thou, my love, my soul, my life's best part
In cold satiety wild turn thee round,
And dash the poor cup broken to the ground.
(Text from American Sonnets)