  She is so shy, this little love of mine, So pale and pure, almost I fear to speak The love that thrills my every pulse like wine Yet brings no answering flush to her fair cheek. She is so calm that Passion's stirring strain To chanson soft and low unbidden dies; For one soft love-glance from her down-dropped eyes. A lily she that from its garden bed, Into the golden sunshine glad and sweet Lifts to far sapphire skies its radiant head, Unheedful of the base weeds at its feet. Yet—should one loving reverently kneel And draw the lily's close-shut leaves apart, Perchance those waxen petals might reveal Enshrined within, a glowing golden heart. |
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