And Fain Would I Call You Mine

The Old Valentine

I sent my sweetheart a valentine on one St. Valentine’s day,
A long time ago, when my hair was brown, ah, now it is sprinkled with grey!
My sweetheart was pretty as she could be, a wild rose bloomed in each cheek,
Her auburn hair rippled down to her waist, her eyes were tender and meek.

And, O, my sweetheart was dear to me, though nobody could have guessed
From my careless glance, or my careless word, the tenderness in my breast.
I sent my sweetheart a valentine, a flowery and foolish thing,
All covered with blue forget-me-nots, and cupids gay on the wing.
Two hearts pierced through, a ruffle of lace, a knot of ribbon, a dove,
And, better than all, a space whereon I could write a message of love;
So burning the midnight oil I wrote with infinite patience and care,
This one earnest verse (for rhyming came hard) to send to my lady fair:
“I love you, I love you with all my heart, And fain would I call you mine,
My Mary, my darling, my beautiful girl, 
Let me be your valentine!”

This yellow old page from the book of youth was put in my hand to-day,
As I growled, “Our Tom has fallen in love in a nonsensical way;
He is making a fool of himself—ha! ha! he is writing poetry now,
To his Anna’s lips, and his Anna’s hair, his Anna’s beautiful brow.”

“Why what rubbish is this?” I asked my wife, a portly but sweet-faced dame,
Who smilingly showed me the verse underneath which I had written my name;
Shamefaced, I read it again and again—let me confess to a truth—
I felt like disowning the yellow thing that belonged to the days of youth.

Till I pictured myself an excited lad penning the words of care,
Knowing her answer would fill my heart with rapture or dark despair.
It was yesterday, who says we are old? “I do,” says Mary, my wife,
“But age has nothing to do with it, since the choosing was done for life.”

I bowed my grey head over her hand, “my sweetheart,” I whispered low,
On this Valentine’s day I tender you the verse written long ago.

“I love you, I love you with all my heart,
And fain would I call you mine,
My Mary, my darling, my beautiful girl,
Let me be your Valentine.”

Jean Blewett, 1897