If you become a nun, dear,
A friar I will be;
In any cell you run, dear,
Pray look behind for me.
The roses all turn pale, too;
The doves all take the veil, too;
The blind will see the show.
What! you become a nun, my dear?
I'll not believe it, no!
If you become a nun, dear,
The bishop Love will be;
The Cupids every one, dear,
Will chant "We trust in thee."
The incense will go sighing,
The candles fall a-dying,
The water turn to wine;
What! you go take the vows, my dear?
You may—but they'll be mine!
—Leigh Hunt
Under the Wattle
"Why should not Wattle do
For Mistletoe?
Ask'd one—they were but two—
Where wattles grow.
He was her lover, too,
Who urged her so—
"Why should not Wattle do
For Mistletoe?"
A rose-cheek rosier grew;
Rose-lips breathed low—
"Since it is here—and You—
I hardly know
Why Wattle should not do."
—Douglas Brook Wheelton Sladen
Eutopia
There is a garden where lilies
And roses are side by side;
And all day between them in silence
The silken butterflies glide.