  But then you don’t mean really what you say— To hear this from the sweetest little lips, O’er which each pretty word daintily trips Like small birds hopping down a garden way, When I had given my soul full scope to play For once before her in the Orphic style Caught from three several volumes of Carlyle, And undivulged before this very day! O young men of our earnest school confess How it is deeply, darkly tragical To find the feminine souls we would adore So full of sense, so versed in worldly lore, So deaf to the Eternal Silences, So unbelieving, so conventional. |
|
