So how can I choose but love you, love you,
Love you, love you, love you?
A BALLAD OF LOOKING
He looked into her eyes, and there he saw
No trace of that bright gleam which poets say
Comes from the faery orb of love's sweet day,
No blushing coyness causes her to withdraw
Her gaze from his. He looked and yet he knew
No joy, no whirling numbness of the brain,
No quickening heart-beat. Then he looked again,