Pray, why do maidens ever stand beneath
The mistletoe?
And why was ever hung the mystic wreath—
Why should it grow?
And why were laughing eyes and lashes made,
If not to tease?
And such an opportunity displayed,
If not to seize?
Why, pouting lips should always ready be
To catch a kiss.
If cheeks will blush, why, it is plain to see
'Tis not amiss.
And when a maiden sweet, and roguish eyes,
And mistletoe,
And madd'ning lips, while telltale blushes rise,
A-teasing so—
Think you that I all idle waiting sat
To see her go?
Did I believe when she insisted that
She didn't know?
ARTHUR MAURICE SMITH. Wrinkle.
~To an Imaginary One.~
Say, darling, do you love me true?
Return you my affection?
Pray answer as I want you to,
And speak with circumspection.
Don't blurt me out a yes, chérie,
And throw your arms around me:
A lack of maiden modesty
Would shock me and confound me.
Be distant as the morning star,
Nor let me know how real,
How most material you are—
My love is too ideal.
Yes, be a little bit afraid,
And make a sweet resistance;
So near, a maid is but a maid,
A goddess at a distance.
Still deign to play the charmer, dear,
Blush while you're thinking of me,
Breathe coyest wordlets in mine ear,
But don't confess you love me!
HENRY B. EDDY. Harvard Advocate.
~When Gladys Plays.~