No tinkling clash of cups and plates.
There grant to me, beneath the stars,
Not buttered scones, but smiles of bliss;
Not pastry, that digestion mars,
But something sweeter still—a kiss.
* * *
Enchantress with the nut-brown hair,
Bright genius of the A. B. C.,
Ah, heed a lover's anguished prayer,
And be not D. E. F. to me!