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.
End of title
Sign in to unlock this title
Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit.
