The Little Lady
O The Little Lady’s dainty
As the picture in a book,
And her hands are creamy-whiter
Than the water-lilies look;
Her laugh’s the undrown’d music
Of the maddest meadow-brook.—
Yet all in vain I praise The Little Lady!
Her eyes are blue and dewy
As the glimmering Summer-dawn,—
Her face is like the eglantine
Before the dew is gone;
And were that honied mouth of hers
A bee’s to feast upon,
He’d be a bee bewildered, Little Lady!
Her brow makes light look sallow;
And the sunshine, I declare,
Is but a yellow jealousy
Awakened by her hair—
For O the dazzling glint of it
Nor sight nor soul can bear,—
So Love goes groping for The Little Lady.
And yet she’s neither Nymph nor Fay,
Nor yet of Angelkind:—
She’s but a racing school-girl, with
Her hair blown out behind
And tremblingly unbraided by
The fingers of the Wind,
As it wildly swoops upon The Little Lady.
