Lesbia Harford Poems
A Meaning Learnt
I'm not his wife. I am his paramour:
His wayside love, picked up in journeying:
Rose of the hedgerows; fragrant, till he fling
Me down beside the ditch, a drooped thing
Some country boy may stick into his hat.
A paramour has no more use than that.
Bother the slow hours
That hold and keep me
From the leafy bowers
You make more lovely than a storm of flowers.
If they let me go
I'd hasten to you
Where the waters flow
In among the shadows and the dreams we know.