I cry, as the pretty smoke lightly curls;
'I want to hear of the life of a man
I, who only know of the life of girls!'
He shakes his head with a smile and a nod,
The smoke curling round it with idle aim;
He is like the picture of some young god,
Who, from painted clouds, looks out of a frame.
'The life of a girl is a fairy thing,
With a sweetness none can wish to forget,
Caught from a snowdrop in earliest spring