  Beyond the orchard, in the lane, The crested red-bird sings again— O bird, whose song says, Have no care. Should I not care when Constance there,— My Constance, with the bashful gaze, Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,— If I declare my love, just says Some careless thing as if in mock? Like—Past the orchard, in the lane, How sweet the red-bird sings again! There, while the red-bird sings his best, His listening mate sits on the nest— O bird, whose patience says, All's well, How can it be with me, now tell? When Constance, with averted eyes,— Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,— If I speak marriage, just replies With some such quaint irrelevancy, As, While the red-bird sings his best, His loving mate sits on the nest. What shall I say? what can I do? Would such replies mean aught to you, O birds, whose gladness says, Be glad? Have I not reason to be sad Her face a-poppy with distress, If I reproach her, pouts, perchance, And answers so in waywardness?— What shall I say? what can I do? My meaning should be plain to you! |
|
