XVII

I loved, but when I dared to speak

My love, the lanes were white with May,

Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek

Flushed like the coming of the day.

Rosecheekt, roselipt, half-sly, half-shy,

You would, and would not, little one,

Altho' I pleaded tenderly,

And you and I were all alone.