 | Poems |  |
THE MISTAKE OF THE LOVES.
To-day as idly in my chair
I hardly half-awake was dreaming,
Methought, in through the sunny air,
A swarm of laughing Loves came streaming;
Winged mischiefs, here and there, without
My leave, the wantons gleamed and fluttered,
Buzzing, like bees, the room about,
Ere half a sentence could be uttered.
I hardly half-awake was dreaming,
Methought, in through the sunny air,
A swarm of laughing Loves came streaming;
Winged mischiefs, here and there, without
My leave, the wantons gleamed and fluttered,
Buzzing, like bees, the room about,
Ere half a sentence could be uttered.
In fact, with such glad hushed surprise
I saw the little urchins flying,
Like humming-birds, before my eyes,
In every nook and corner prying,
Now handling this—now into that
With childish laughs and chatter peeping,
I did not care to stay their chat,
But silent sat, as I'd been sleeping.
I saw the little urchins flying,
Like humming-birds, before my eyes,
In every nook and corner prying,
Now handling this—now into that
With childish laughs and chatter peeping,
I did not care to stay their chat,
But silent sat, as I'd been sleeping.
466
What would they do? quick, every one
Found every moment new employment;
They paused at last; well, now what fun
Would yield their smallships fresh enjoyment?
My scrap-book lay before me there;
One saw and straightway courage mustered,
Helped by five more, the prize to bear
To where all close around it clustered.
Found every moment new employment;
They paused at last; well, now what fun
Would yield their smallships fresh enjoyment?
My scrap-book lay before me there;
One saw and straightway courage mustered,
Helped by five more, the prize to bear
To where all close around it clustered.
Swift, over, leaf on leaf was turned;
Small praise, each sketch, while passing under
Those tiny curious quick eyes, earned,
Till, ah, at last, one waked their wonder;
My pencil there had vainly tried,
How vainly! as it oft had striven,
To do that, unto it denied,
Image the beauty to you given.
Small praise, each sketch, while passing under
Those tiny curious quick eyes, earned,
Till, ah, at last, one waked their wonder;
My pencil there had vainly tried,
How vainly! as it oft had striven,
To do that, unto it denied,
Image the beauty to you given.
Yet passion there, to labouring art,
A strength beyond its own had granted;
Enough was there to make them start,
However much of you was wanted;
Eyes—dimples—hair—those peeping pearls,
As those red lips so archly show them,
They saw them and, O flower of girls,
How strange! at once, they seemed to know them.
A strength beyond its own had granted;
Enough was there to make them start,
However much of you was wanted;
Eyes—dimples—hair—those peeping pearls,
As those red lips so archly show them,
They saw them and, O flower of girls,
How strange! at once, they seemed to know them.
O what a storm of pretty noise,
Of cries and clappings straight I heard then,
Of little feet that stamped the joys,
Enough their small tongues couldn't word then;
What with delight could thrill them so?
Hardly my wonder I could smother,
Till, listening, soon I laughed to know
They, in your likeness, saw their mother.
Of cries and clappings straight I heard then,
Of little feet that stamped the joys,
Enough their small tongues couldn't word then;
What with delight could thrill them so?
Hardly my wonder I could smother,
Till, listening, soon I laughed to know
They, in your likeness, saw their mother.
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