And then I spoke to him. I hinted first
My moods were odd; not moods for him to mind.
“Odd,” answer’d he; “I knew a family
Where all the children grew so very odd,—
Like fruit when tough to touch and sour to taste.
Not ripe nor mellow. Too much spring had they,
And not enough of summer in their home.—
I know that you are not so very odd
That you would keep apart from one you love.
And I, can I not hope that I am one?”