When Summer's here and Margery
Goes walking in the fields with me,
She is so pure, she is so fair,
The wildflowers eye her and declare—
Perdie!
So pure is she, so fair is she,
Just see,
Where our sweet cousin takes the air!
III
Why is it that my Margery
Hears nothing that these say to me?
She is so good, she is so true,
My heart it maketh such ado;
Perdie!
So good is she, so true is she,
You see,
She can not hear the other two.
Constance.
Beyond the orchard, in the lane,
The crested red-bird sings again—
O bird, whose song says, Have no care.
Should I not care when Constance there,—
My Constance, with the bashful gaze,
Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,—
If I declare my love, just says
Some careless thing as if in mock?
Like—Past the orchard, in the lane,
How sweet the red-bird sings again!
There, while the red-bird sings his best,
His listening mate sits on the nest—
O bird, whose patience says, All's well,
How can it be with me, now tell?
When Constance, with averted eyes,—
Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—
If I speak marriage, just replies
With some such quaint irrelevancy,
As, While the red-bird sings his best,
His loving mate sits on the nest.
What shall I say? what can I do?
Would such replies mean aught to you,
O birds, whose gladness says, Be glad?
Have I not reason to be sad
When Constance, with demurest glance,
Her face a-poppy with distress,
If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,
And answers so in waywardness?—
What shall I say? what can I do?
My meaning should be plain to you!