On the Fly-Leaf of Manon Lescaut

To you, whose temperate pulses flow With measured beat, serene and slow, The even tenor of whose way Is undisturbed by passion’s sway, This tale of wayward love may seem The record of a fevered dream. And yet, we two have that within To make us what our kind have been. A lure more strong, a wish more faint, Makes one a monster, one a saint; And even love, by difference nice, Becomes a virtue or a vice. The briar, that o’er the garden wall Trails its sweet blossoms till they fall Across the dusty road, and then Are trodden under foot of men, Is sister to the decorous rose Within the garden’s well-kept close, Whose pinioned branches may not roam Out and beyond their latticed home. There ’s many a life of sweet content Whose virtue is environment. They erred, they fell; and yet, ’t is true, They hold the mirror up to you.

Collection: 
English
Walter Learned

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