Who, like a dove, with its scarce-feathered wing,
Flattered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!
“There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease—
A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare
Describe the swaling of a jaunty air;
And thus when swirling from the waltz’s wheel
You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille,
That smiling voice, although it made me start,
Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart;