Lord Nevil039s Advice

“Friend,” quoth Lord Nevil, “thou art young

To face the world, and thou art blind

To subtle ways of womankind;

The meshes thou wilt fall among.

“Take an old married man’s advice;

Use the experience I have earned;

Watch well where women are concerned,-

They’re not all birds of paradise!

“Be circumspect, or thou mayst fall;

Abjure a blind faith-nay, trust none-

Till thou hast chosen, proven one;

Then trust her truly-trust in all.

“Keep a calm brain and quiet eye,

And watch. The doll of powder and paint,

The flirt, the artificial saint,

The loud man-woman pass them by.

“The innocent one, who craves thy cares

To shield her from life’s fret and fray;

Lad, watch her-maybe she’ll betray

Some doubtful knowledge, unawares.

“The pensive one, who droops and sighs-

Wait till her dreaming comes to test;

Be gentle, yet be wary, lest

‘Tis but a graceful grey disguise.

“The world-wise husband-hunter-she

Who knows no love but love of gold,

And lands and titles-empty, cold,-

Pity her, lad, and let her be.

“And the rich heiress-let her pass.

Belike she’s stupid, drugged with wealth,

And just enjoys her life and health

As some fat cow in clover grass.

“Or insolent with prosperity,

Unsharpened, shallow, unrefined;-

And thou art poor, and thou wilt mind

That proud blood cometh down to thee.

“The gushing gossip-she who rains

Incessant chatter in thine ears;-

She may be worth thy keenest fears,

She may be simply lacking brains,

“And lacking grace and modesty.

She will make mischief, at the best;

She may be wily, like the rest;

Keep thy tongue still when she is by.

“They that would master thee, if they could,

In brain and muscle-flaring lights-

The clamorous for false woman’s rights;-

Snub them, my friend-it does them good-

“And do not think of them for wives.

Fit mates for such seem somewhat rare;

But when two odd ones make a pair,

They spoil at least four precious lives.

“But shouldst thou chance to meet a girl

With brave, bright eyes, that front thee straight,

A kindly tongue that does not prate,

And quiet lips that cannot curl;

“With fine sense, quick to understand,

With dignity that is not cold,

Sweet, sunny mirth that is not bold,

A ready ear, a willing hand;

“One skilled in household arts, and skilled

In little courteous, graceful ways,

That make no show and win no praise-

Wherewith discordant jars are stilled:

“One who will never touch a sore;

One who sheds sunshine round about,

And draws life’s hidden comfort out;

One whom the boys and babes adore:

“One with an intellect to reach

The highest range that thou canst rise;

Who will aye help thee, woman-wise,

And yet not set herself to teach:

“One of whom women love to speak,

In honest kindness, and whose name

Men let alone; whose chiefest fame

Lies hidden where men may not seek;-

“Friend, woo her, as a good knight can,

And win her. Lay thou at her feet

Faith, love, and honour, true and sweet;

And count thyself a happy man.”

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Poems in English 

• Spain 1873–’74. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Souvenirs of Democracy. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Song of the Universal. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Song of the Redwood-Tree. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Song of the Open Road. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Song of the Exposition. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Song of the Broad-Axe. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Song for All Seas, All Ships. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Song at Sunset. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Sometimes with One I Love. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Solid, Ironical, Rolling Orb. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Sobbing of The Bells, The. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• So Long. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• So Far and So Far, and on Toward the End. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• The Sleepers by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Singer in the Prison, The. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Sing of the Banner at Day-Break. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Shut Not Your Doors, &c. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Ship Starting, The. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Scented Herbage of My Breast. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman

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