The Rural Maid
By Fernando M. Maramag
Thy glance, sweet maid, when first we met,
Had left a heart that aches for thee,
I feel the pain of fond regret
Thy heart, perchance, is not for me.
We parted: though we met no more,
My dreams are dreams of thee, fair maid;
I think of thee, my thoughts implore
The hours my lips on thine are laid.
Forgive these words that love impart,
And pleading, bare the poets breast;
And if a rose with thorns thou art,
Yet on my breast that rose may rest.
I know not what to name thy charms,
Thou art half human, half divine;
And if I could hold thee in my arms,
I know both heaven and earth were mine.