And the love of his lady very high,
With no one her inmost heart to know,
Or the riddle to read of the haughty eye;
But under the mistletoe fairly caught,
What maiden coyness or pride could dare
To turn from the kisses as sudden as thought
And ardent as waiting prayer?
“C’est la première pas qui coûte!”
So they say, in another far-away land;
And, the one kiss given, more follow, as fruit,