Nor is she one who snared my love
By just the woman's graces:
I loved her when, a sucking dove,
She cooed and made grimaces.
And when the pretty darling cried,
I often stooped and kissed her,
Though cold and faint her lips replied,
As though she were my sister.
I loved her long but loved her still
When she discarded long-clothes,
Yet here if she had had her will
Would this romantic song close.
For, though we wandered hand in hand,
Companions close and chronic,
She always made me understand
Her motives were Platonic.
She said me "Nay" with merry mien,
Not weeping like the cayman,
When she was Mab, the Fairy Queen,
And I Tom King, highwayman.
'Twas at a Children's Fancy Ball,
I got that first rejection,
It did not kill my love at all
But heightened its complexion.
My love to tell, when she grew up,
Necessitates italics.
Her hair was like the buttercup
(Corolla not the calyx).
Her form was slim, her eye was bright,
Her mouth a jewel-casket,
Her hand it was so soft and white
I often used to ask it.
And so from year to year I wooed,
My passion growing fiercer,
Though she in modest maiden mood
Addressed me as "My dear sir."