 | English Roses |  |
CICELY.
Neatly, nicely, little Cicely
Radiant with her wild rose-bloom,
As if born without a thorn
Flits about the social room;
Each light action is distraction
Done with pure unconscious art,
Which in smiling ways beguiling
Flutters every foolish heart.
Curates flocking round her mocking
Playful words discover late,
From the woes of secret throes
They have met the usual fate.
Radiant with her wild rose-bloom,
As if born without a thorn
Flits about the social room;
Each light action is distraction
Done with pure unconscious art,
Which in smiling ways beguiling
Flutters every foolish heart.
Curates flocking round her mocking
Playful words discover late,
From the woes of secret throes
They have met the usual fate.
She is tender, soft and slender,
But has got a stubborn will;
And those feet, however sweet,
Tread down all obstruction still.
Yet her careful path is prayerful
Starting from the early shrine,
And her motions at devotions
Though unstudied are divine.
And so pretty are the jetty
Lashes curtaining her eyes,
That amaze can hardly gaze
Into those deep mysteries.
But has got a stubborn will;
And those feet, however sweet,
Tread down all obstruction still.
Yet her careful path is prayerful
Starting from the early shrine,
And her motions at devotions
Though unstudied are divine.
And so pretty are the jetty
Lashes curtaining her eyes,
That amaze can hardly gaze
Into those deep mysteries.
She has prickles fair and stickles
Not at seasons in their use,
And no thorn is as the scorn
Veiled in compliments profuse.
But the satire like her attire
Is most delicate and dear,
For it heals whate'er it steals
And has never wrung a tear.
But I wonder if a blunder
Was by nature wrought in spite,
And her face alone is grace
With the heart omitted quite.
Not at seasons in their use,
And no thorn is as the scorn
Veiled in compliments profuse.
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Is most delicate and dear,
For it heals whate'er it steals
And has never wrung a tear.
But I wonder if a blunder
Was by nature wrought in spite,
And her face alone is grace
With the heart omitted quite.
Neatly, nicely, little Cicely
Goes her own indifferent way;
Now at morn to pleasure born,
Then at Evensong to pray.
For the beauties of Church duties
She has a religious thirst,
And is pat in all the matin
Services and ever first.
But she marks not, and she harks not
To adorers at her side;
Deaf to love, she laughs above,
In her heedless power and pride.
Goes her own indifferent way;
Now at morn to pleasure born,
Then at Evensong to pray.
For the beauties of Church duties
She has a religious thirst,
And is pat in all the matin
Services and ever first.
But she marks not, and she harks not
To adorers at her side;
Deaf to love, she laughs above,
In her heedless power and pride.
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