TOO OLD FOR KISSES.
My uncle Philip, hale old man,
Has children by the dozen;
Tom, Ned, and Jack, and Kate, and Ann—
How many call me “cousin”?
Good boys and girls, the best was Bess;
I bore her on my shoulder,
A little bit of loveliness
That never should grow older!
Her eyes had such a pleading way,
They seemed to say, “Don’t strike me;”
Then, growing bold, another day,
“I mean to make you like me.”
I liked my cousin, early, late;
Who likes not little misses?
She used to meet me at the gate,
Just old enough for kisses.
This was, I think, three years ago,—
Before I went to college;
I learned one thing there,—how to row,
A healthy sort of knowledge.
When I was plucked (we won the race),
And all was at an end there,
I thought of Uncle Philip’s place,
And every country friend there.
My cousin met me at the gate;
She looked five, ten years older,—
A tall young woman, still, sedate,
With manners coyer, colder.
She gave her hand with stately pride:
“Why, what a greeting this is!
You used to kiss me.” She replied,
“I am too old for kisses.”
I loved, I love my cousin Bess;
She’s always in my mind now,—
A full-blown bud of loveliness,
The rose of womankind now:
She must have suitors; old and young
Must bow their heads before her;
Vows must be made, and songs be sung,
By many a mad adorer!
But I must win her; she must give
To me her youth and beauty;
And I—to love her while I live
Will be my happy duty;
For she will love me soon or late,
And be my bliss of blisses,
Will come to meet me at the gate,
Nor be too old for kisses!
