  HOW happens it, my cruel miss, You’re always giving me the mitten? You seem to have forgotten this: That you no longer are a kitten! A woman that has reached the years Of that which people call discretion Should put away all childish fears And see in courtship no transgression. A mother’s solace may be sweet, But Hymen’s tenderness is sweeter; And though all virile love be meet, You’ll find the poet’s love is metre. Eugene Field. |
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