  Playthings my Betsey hath, the snail’s cast shell, Pebbles and small unripened pears, she dotes On gentle things with furred or feathered coats, A bunch of keys, a little brazen bell; But none of these enticements please so well, Nor pouring tea nor sailing paper boats, As the rare moon that of an evening floats In anchorages inaccessible. On frost-bound nights a portly yellow moon She kissed her hand to him before she slept, The slim white stripling of an afternoon In summer, still she longed for him and wept Seeking to coax him down an elder wand, For once, that she might hold him in her hand. |
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