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How not? She loved, may be, perfume,
Poor child !-with heart the down-lined nest
Not less I dream her mute desire
'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find
L'ENVOI. These last I spoke. Then Florence said, Below me,-"Dreams ? Delusions, Fred !" Next, with a pause,—she bent the while Over a rose, with roguish smile“ But how disgusted, sir, you 'll be To hear I scrawled that ‘Dorothy.""
“On serait tenté de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Bergeron
'HOUGH the voice of modern schools
Or a bird.
I have watched you long, Avice,
Watched you so,
And I know
That will grow.
When you enter in a room,
It is stirred
With the wayward, flashing flight
Of a bird ;
At a word.
When you called to me my name,
In the lane,
When you sang the Schwalbenlied,
'Twas absurd, But it seemed no human note
That I heard ; For your strain had all the trills, All the little shakes and stills, Of the over-song that rills
From a bird.
You have just their eager, quick
“ Airs de tête,"
All their flush and fever-heat
When elate; Every bird-like nod and beck, And a bird's own curve of neck When she gives a little peck
To her mate.
When you left me, only now,
In that furred, Puffed, and feathered Polish dress,
I was spurred Just to catch you, O my Sweet, By the bodice trim and neat, Just to feel your heart a-beat,
Like a bird.
Yet, alas! Love's light you deign
But to wear
And you care
Of the air.
So I dare not woo you, Sweet,
For a day,