LILY, YELLOW DAY. Coquetry. 
NOT WHOLLY JUST. 
The words that trembled on your lips, 
Were uttered not—I know it well; 
The tears that would your eyes eclipse, 
Were checked and smothered ere they fell; 
The looks and smiles I gained from you 
Were little more than others won; 
And yet you are not wholly true, 
Nor, wholly just—what you have done. 
You know, at least you might have known, 
That every little grace you gave, 
Your voice’s somewhat lowered tone, 
Your hand’s faint shake at parting wave, 
Your every sympathetic look 
At words that chanced your soul to touch, 
While reading from some favorite book, 
Were much to me—alas, how much! 
You might have seen—perhaps you saw— 
How all of these were steps of hope 
On which I rose, in joy and awe, 
Up to my passion’s lofty scope; 
How, after each, a firmer tread 
I planted on the slippery ground, 
And higher raised my venturous head, 
And ever new assurance found. 
****** 
And then, when fallen, faint and bruised, 
I saw another’s glad success, 
I may have wrongfully accused 
Your heart of vulgar fickleness. 
But even now, in calm review 
Of all I lost and all I won, 
I cannot deem you wholly true, 
Nor, wholly just—what you have done. 
R. M. Milnes. 
