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.

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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.

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