Richard Henry Stoddard (Ричард Генри Стоддард)
The Grape Gatherer
Italy WELL, I have met you cousin, Where not a soul can see: What do you want? "You love me?" You trifle, Sir, with me. You love that grape-girl yonder, The one against the wall: She climbs, and climbs; but have a care, A step, and she may fall. You walked with her this morning, Her basket on your head: "'Twas better than my coronet," Or something so you said: "And the grapes and yellow tendrils Tangled in her hair, Were brighter than my ringlets, And all the pearls I wear." You should have seen her lover, Hid in the vines hard by, A swarthy, black-browed fellow, With a devil in his eye: He clutched his grape-hook fiercely, And but that I were near, He would have slain you, cousin, And will some night, I fear. You think she loves you only? And so thought all the rest: Why, you had hardly left her Before the Count was blest. You doubt? Pray ask her sister, Or ask the jilted swains, Or watch, when she's not watching, 'Twill well be worth your pains. I should be very angry, 'Tis so unworthy you: Be since you say you jested, I must forgive, and do. I own I love you somewhat; But ere you marry me, You must do one thing, cousin-- Let my grape gatherers be!
Richard Henry Stoddard’s other poems:
893
