YOU SAID, DEAR GIRL.
You said, dear girl, the other night,
That love was all a fond illusion!—
But why, my dear, with eyes so bright,
And cheeks so blooming with confusion?
And when I gravely own'd the truth,
In prayers that love should ne'er entrance thee.
And blamed the wanton dreams of youth,—
I saw thee frown;—perhaps 't was fancy.
And as I press'd thy burning hand,
And breathed the vow of never loving,
Why did thy heaving breast expand,
With sighs so sweet,—yet so reproving?
But when I talk'd of friendship, dear,
Of Plato, and his stoic pleasure,
I long'd to kiss the starting tear,
And steal away the pearly treasure.
'T was love that sparkled in thine eye,
And gemm'd thy cheek with wavering flushes
'T was love that breathed the chiding sigh,
And mingled its tear with rosy blushes.
Then call it friendship;—what you will;—
The heart disowns what the lips are naming;
It lives in the joy of the holy thrill,
And the altar of love is brightly flaming.
