  Valentine, O Valentine, Pretty little Love of mine; Little Love whose yellow hair Makes the daffodils despair; Little Love whose shining eyes Fill the stars with sad surprise: Hither turn your ten wee toes, Each a tiny shut-up rose, End most fitting and complete For the rosy-pinky feet; Toddle, toddle here to me, For I'm waiting, do you see?— Waiting for to call you mine, Valentine, O Valentine! Valentine, O Valentine, I will dress you up so fine! Here's a frock of tulip-leaves, Trimmed with lace the spider weaves; Here's a cap of larkspur blue, Just precisely made for you; Here's a mantle scarlet-dyed, Once the tiger-lily's pride, Spotted all with velvet black Like the fire-beetle's back; Lady-slippers on your feet, Now behold you all complete! Come and let me call you mine, Valentine, O Valentine! Valentine, O Valentine, Now a wreath for you I'll twine. I will set you on a throne Where the damask rose has blown, Dropping all her velvet bloom, Carpeting your leafy room: Here while you shall sit in pride, Butterflies all rainbow-pied, Dandy beetles gold and green, Creeping, flying, shall be seen, Every bird that shakes his wings, Every katydid that sings, Wasp and bee with buzz and hum. Hither, hither see them come, Creeping all before your feet, Rendering their homage meet. But 'tis I that call you mine, Valentine, O Valentine! |
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