Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By WalterLearned

981 On the Fly-Leaf of Manon Lescaut

TO you, whose temperate pulses flow

With measured beat, serene and slow,

The even tenor of whose way

Is undisturbed by passion’s sway,

This tale of wayward love may seem

The record of a fevered dream.

And yet, we two have that within

To make us what our kind have been.

A lure more strong, a wish more faint,

Makes one a monster, one a saint;

And even love, by difference nice,

Becomes a virtue or a vice.

The briar, that o’er the garden wall

Trails its sweet blossoms till they fall

Across the dusty road, and then

Are trodden under foot of men,

Is sister to the decorous rose

Within the garden’s well-kept close,

Whose pinioned branches may not roam

Out and beyond their latticed home.

There ’s many a life of sweet content

Whose virtue is environment.

They erred, they fell; and yet, ’t is true,

They hold the mirror up to you.