She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,

Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

* * * * *

When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror,

Tying up her laces, looping up her hair,

Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,

More love should I have, and much less care.

When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror

Loosening her laces, combing down her curls,

Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,