Dean B. Lyman, Jr.

CRIMSON as ever skin pomegranate wore,

When timid love first entered in, Eleanore,

Were those soft, blushing cheeks of thine that flush no more—

Alas!—since they no more are mine, Eleanore.

White as the gleaming seeds within the cloven core

Were thy soft hands, so fair to win, Eleanore,

Which now withhold their benison and blessing, nor

Reach out in love to anyone, Eleanore.

Gold as the gold upon the stem, or louis d’or—

Thy locks were like the glint of them, Eleanore.

Sharper and sweeter were the lips I hungered for

Than is the juicy fruit that drips, Eleanore.

Scarlet and rich, red as a rose, forevermore

I think of lips … another knows, Eleanore?

Ah, no! I’ll not think that of thee. I set more store

Upon an unchanged memory, Eleanore.

Ripe was the scarlet fruit that fell. The branch that bore

Must wait for winter snows. Ah, well, Eleanore,

Perhaps the spring will come again, but nevermore

The branch will bear what blossomed then, Eleanore.

That first, full love that ripened red, although we pour

Upon it all the tears we shed, Eleanore,

Will never grow again. Alas! All that is o’er,

With only grief that it should pass, Eleanore.

Crimson as ever fruit that grew and branches bore

Will be the love (not like we knew), Eleanore,

Which spring will yet bring forth for me; but that’s no score

Whereon my heart can happy be, Eleanore.

Fair was the fruit I gathered first: now, as before,

That seems the best—and worst, Eleanore!