Classic Poem

" MY love or hate — choose which you will, "
He says; and o'er the window-sill
The rose-bush, jostled by the wind,
Rasps at his hands, close-clenched behind,
As she makes answer, smiling clear
As is the day, — " Your hate, my dear! "

An interval of silence — so
Intensely still, the cattle's low
Across the field's remotest rim
Comes like a near moan up to him,
While o'er the open sill once more
The rose-bush rasps him as before.

Then, with an impulse strange and new
To him, he says: " 'Tis wise of you
To choose thus — for by such a choice
You lose so little, that, " — his voice
Breaks suddenly — the rose-bush stirs —
But ah! his hands are — safe in hers.