Arthur Symons (28 February 1865 – 22 January 1945 / Milford Havens, Wales)
You were a child, and liked me, yesterday.
To-day you are a woman, and perhaps
Those softer eyes betoken the sweet lapse
Of liking into loving: who shall say?
Only I know that there can be for us
No liking more, nor any kisses now,
But they shall wake sweet shame upon your brow
Sweetly, or in a rose calamitous.
Trembling upon the verge of some new dawn
You stand, as if awakened out of sleep,
And it is I who cried to you, 'Arise!'
I who would fain call back the child that's gone,
And what you lost for me would have you keep,
Fearing to meet the woman of your eyes.
Comments about this poem (At Seventeen by Arthur Symons )
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