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,
Hark! how 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, come, tell?
When Constance, with averted eyes,—
Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—
If I talk 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 music says, “Be glad”?
Have I not reason to be sad
When Constance, with demurest glance,
Her face all poppied with distress,
If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,
And answers thus in waywardness?—
“What shall I say? what can I do?
My meaning should be plain to you!”
LYDIA
When Autumn’s here and days are short,
Let Lydia laugh and, hey!
Straightway ’t is May-day in my heart,
And blossoms strew the way.
When Summer ’s here and days are long,
Let Lydia sigh and, ho!
December’s fields I walk among,
And shiver in the snow.
No matter what the seasons are,
My Lydia is so dear,
My heart admits no calendar
Of Earth when she is near.