John Crowe Ransom

30 April 1888 - 3 July 1974 / Pulaski Tennessee


My dear and I, we disagreed
When we had been much time together.
For when will lovers learn to sail
From sailing always in good weather?
She said a hateful little word
Between the pages of the book.
I bubbled with a noble rage,
I bruised her with a dreadful look,
And thanked her kindly for the word
Of such a little silly thing;
Indeed I loved my poet then
Beyond my dear, or anything.
And she, the proud girl, swept away,
How swift and scornfully she went!
And I the frightened lover stayed,
And have not had one hour's content
Until to-day; until I knew
That I was loved again, again;
Then hazard how this thing befel,
Brother of women and of men?
'Perhaps a gallant gentleman
Accomplished it, who saw you bleed;
Perhaps she wrote upon the book
A riddling thing that you could read;
'Perhaps she crept to you, and cried,
And took upon her all the blame.'
O no, do proud girls creep and cry?
'Perhaps she whispered you your name.'

O no, she walked alone, and I
Was walking in the rainy wood,
And saw her drooping by the tree,
And saw my work of widowhood.
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