“Come, Love, be mine,” the boy implored;
And from his fresh young heart there pour’d
Full streams of life that flush’d his face
And thrill’d his breast for Love’s embrace.
“Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied;
“The worth of boyhood must be tried.”
So, like the spring’s uncertain sun,
Love lured his hope; but was not won.
“Come, Love, be mine,” the young man pray’d,
As if some angel were the maid;