I never saw a waist so slender!
Her every look, her every smile
Shot right and left a score of arrows;
I thought ’twas Venus from her Isle,
And wonder’d where she’d left her sparrows.
She talk’d,—of politics or prayers,—
Or Southey’s prose, or Wordsworth’s sonnets,—
Of danglers—or of dancing bears,
Of battles—or the last new bonnets,
By candlelight, at twelve o’clock,