Millicent

Thou dimpled Millicent, of merry guesses, Strong-limb'd and tall, tossing thy wayward tresses, What mystery of the heart can so surprise The mirth and music of thy brimming eyes?

Pale-brow, thou knowest not and diest to learn The mortal secret that doth in thee burn; With look imploring 'If you love me, tell, What is it in me that you love so well?'

And suddenly thou stakest all thy charms, And leapest on me; and in thy circling arms When almost stifled with their wild embrace, I feel thy hot tears sheltering on my face.

1901.

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