I marked her grave and nun-like air,
When all beside were gay and free;
And true, I said, the face is fair,
But that was ne'er enough for me.
And Her's, I grant, are speaking eyes,
And Her's is brow of thoughtful mould;
but these will never win the wise,
When linked with heart too calm and cold.
For me, a frost so chill and deep,
I cannot tarry for its breaking;
These sleeping Beauties—let 'em sleep,
I never knew one worth the waking.
And so I talked—till—on a day—
Lured by I know not what vagary,
She put such store of charms in play.
Such frolic graces, smiles so airy;
With cadences like music strung,
And sense with feeling so commingling,
That I though staid, and not too young,
Felt, like the rest, my bosom tingling.
A foolish tingling—yet so dear,
An idle—yet so sweet a pain,
I knew not if to wish, or fear
That she were calm and cold again.