To Chloe II

Chloe, you shun me like a hind That, seeking vainly for her mother, Hears danger in each breath of wind And wildly darts this way and t'other. Whether the breezes sway the wood Or lizards scuttle through the brambles, She starts, and off, as though pursued, The foolish, frightened creature scrambles. But, Chloe, you're no infant thing That should esteem a man an ogre— Let go your mother's apron-string And pin your faith upon a toga!