  BETSEY, 'tis very like that I shall be— When death shall wreak my life's economy— Repaid with pains for contemplating thee Unwisely out of season. With the rest We knelt at Mass, not yet disperst and blest, Waiting the imminent "Ite missa est." And I, who turned a little from the pure Pursuit of mine intention to make sure My child knelt undistracted and demure, Did fall into that sin. And ere the close Of the grave Canon's "Benedicat vos ..." Had scanned her hair and said, "How thick it grows Over the little golden neck of her!" So doth the mother sway the worshipper And snatch the holiest intervals to err. Nor piety constrained me, nor the place; But I commended, 'gainst the light's full grace, The little furry outline of her face. |
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