WITH lash on cheek, she comes and goes; I watch her when she little knows: I wonder if she dreams of it. Sitting and working at my rhymes, I weave into my verse at times Her sunny hair, or gleams of it. Upon her window-ledge is set A box of flowering mignonette; Morning and eve she tends to them -- The senseless flowers, that do not care About that loosened strand of hair, As prettily she bends to them. If I could once contrive to get Into that box of mignonette Some morning when she tends to them -- She comes! I see the rich blood rise From throat to cheek! -- down go the eyes, Demurely, as she bends to them! |