For Your Beauty, I Confess Poem by Phiwokuhle Mpendulo Manana

One morning, I walk'd
Alone on the lawn,
With your stunning beauty,
You came across,
And felt myself, howe'er we talk'd,
To grave themes delicately drawn.
When you, delighted, found I knew
More of your peace than you supposed,


Like fox-glove buds, in pairs disclosed.
Our former faults did we confess,
Our ancient feud was more than heal'd,
And, with the woman's eagerness
For amity full-sign'd and seal'd,
Thou, offering up for sacrifice
My heart's reserve, brought out to show
Some verses, made when thee are apart


To all but Heaven, three years ago;
Since happier grown! I took and read
The neat-writ lines, void of guile,


'Day after day, until to-day,
Imaged, you flourish.
The same dull task, the weary way,
The weakness pardon'd o'er and o'er,
'The thwarted thirst, too faintly felt,
For joy's well-nigh forgotten life,
The restless heart, which, when I knelt,
Made of my worship barren strife.


'Ah, whence to-day's so sweet release,
This clearance light of all my care,
This conscience free, this fertile peace,
These softly folded wings of prayer,
'This calm and more than conquering love,
With which nought evil dares to cope,
This joy that lifts no glance above,
For faith too sure, too sweet for hope?


'O, happy time, too happy change,
It will not live, though fondly nurst!
Full soon the sun will seem as strange
As now the cloud which seems dispersed.'


Thou from a rose-tree shook the blight;
And well you know that I know well
Your grace with silence to requite;
And, answering now the luncheon bell,
All melancholy wrong, its mood
Such sweet self-confidence display'd,
So glad a sense of present good.



I cry and weep: for I confess
For I've never put myself to confess,
Or Show, but in pursuit express
As I don't have a predestinated mate;
And thus to me, who had in sight
The happy chance upon the cards,
Each beauty blossom'd in the light
Of tender personal regards;


And, in the records of my love,
Red-letter'd, eminently fair,
Stood sixteen, who, beyond the rest,
By turns till then had been my care,
And, last and best,
But dearest of the whole fair troop,


In judgment of the moment, you
Whose daisy eyes had learn'd to droop.
Your very faults my fancy fired;
My loving will, so thwarted, grew;
And, bent on worship, I admired
Whate'er you are, with partial view.
And yet when, as to-day, your smile
Is prettiest, I could not but note
Honoria, less admired the while,
Was lovelier, though from love remote.