In her kisses there is death,
And decay in every breath.
She makes tombs of what were bowers,
Strewn with corses of dead flowers.
To the loftiest leaves that wave
She but whispers of a grave.
A QUAKER MAID
Just a pair of green-grey eyes,
With a knack of changing
Like the sea, when shine and shower
O’er its breast are ranging.
Just a pair of green-grey eyes
Each one a heart-breaker,
Who would think that they belonged
To a little Quaker?
Prim her bonnet, drab her gown,
And she walks sedately,
With a sort of lily-mien—
Drooping, and yet stately.
And her voice sounds, oh, so meek!
“Thou” and “thee” and “thying,”
Yet the while those grey-green eyes
Seem to be belying.
All these airs of calm repose,—
This sad suit and sober,
Why should Spring’s young sapling be
Brown-leaved like October?
Gown her in the lilies’ white!
Crown her curls with roses!
Wreath her neck with daisy-chains!
Fill her hands with posies!