The Good Loser

I am a stubborn bastard, some may say;
And now, though I have given up,
Some thoughts will not stay away.
I do not wish to drink the bitter cup

Of dregs that too often losers in the game
Are offered, with a sympathetic smile.
I will just drink to her sweet name,
And sit and think over our love for awhile.

Her name is Margaret, she of gold
That beams out of her, no more hidden
Than the sun that on rising we behold.
To her, no secret of my heart was forbidden.

I can still see her glorious dark eyes,
Narrowed in her dark-skinned face,
And hear her words so soft and wise
As she laid a hand on my arm with all her grace:

"Be not bitter because you have lost.
I am sure that you will find someone at last."
Yes, I cannot mourn even now the cost
Of days in her presence that went too fast.

I knew the moment that she saw her
That she would never take me as lover.
It was there all evening, in her whisper
When she turned her head to discover

The other's current position in the room.
Her dark eyes shone with a longing joy;
Her face opened like a flower in bloom.
Such love she never directed at any boy.

It was all directed at her, the other one,
Whom I cannot hate even now: Laurel.
She shone with her own kind of sun,
Her eyes of green and hair of sorrel.

But I am a stubborn bastard, so called.
Margaret did not tell me at once to depart,
And so I still pursued, still sought and stonewalled,
Trying to gain entrance to her golden heart.

I remember how they looked together,
One evening when they knew not I was there,
Standing on a hill amongst the heather,
Their arms linked, their heads bowed so hair

Ran together in a great colored river-flow.
They lookd matched and matchless at once.
I knew then that her heart should not go
With me or mine, however many hunts

I might enact. That evening I gave all claim
To Laurel, though a few more days 
I pretended not to see the glorious flame
That in Margaret's eyes even now plays.

Slowly, I gave up my pursuit of her;
Slowly, I gave her into the arms of the other,
The woman who makes her heart stir,
The woman who has become her lover.

It was not so very many days ago now
That she put her dark hand upon my arm,
And smiled at me as a bending tree bough
Might smile unafraid upon the storm.

"Thank you for understanding- all this."
I could only shake my head and say, 
"I know, when I hear it, the name of bliss.
And now is the time for me to go away."

Margaret smiled at me, her dark eyes bright,
Her hand lingering a moment on my shoulder.
"I hope," she whispered, "that your wild flight
Will find you a lover before you grow older."

I snorted at that, and said, "I hope so, too."
Then came the laughing smile I loved to see,
And, as I the open door made to go through,
She whispered, "Give her a kiss for me."

I am a stubborn bastard, as some might say;
But even I knew I had lost the game
When I looked into the eyes of my day,
And saw there the sun in flame.

So it is; and I have resolved not to be bitter.
Such things everyone in life must sup.
I cannot hate and will not forget her;
I will not drink of the hemlock-poisoned cup

Of envy, or jealousy, or with my sense part.
I will go on, and hope that some woman can
Restore the flutter and the rhythm to my heart.
Hopefully, my next love can love a man!