DULCES AMARYLLIDIS IRÆ.
I told my love a truth she liked not well;
She spoke no word. I raised my eyes to watch
Her cheek’s red flush, her bosom’s angry swell;
She rose to go; her hand was on the latch;
When some swift thought—of my fond love, maybe,
Or ill-requited patience—bowed her head:
She faltered, paused with foot half raised to flee,
Then turned, and stole into my arms instead.