‘Las, Chloe, have I tuned in vain
Mine unaccustomed lyre?
Dost thou despise the classic strain
To which I did aspire?
I read in books of ancient France
How maidens should be won.
“Vow fiercely,” so they said, “she owns
The moon, the stars, the sun”
“Vow flowers spring beneath her feet,
Vow that you die of grief.
Compare her with the heathen gods.
Vow night brings no relief.”
I do not know how Venus looked
Nor who the dame might be;
I did obey the ancient book,
Comparing her with thee.
And, as thou know’st, I eat and drink
With unabated zest.
And, though I love, no dream of thee
Hath kept me from my rest.
Behold, I break my lyre, and since
I am the man for thee,
Hear, Chloe, now, my only vow:
Thou art the maid for me.
(Ethel Clifford)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Man Poems, God Poems, Books Poems, Grief PoemsBased on Keywords: unaccustomed, unabated