A Dainty Fop
So jaunty, free, and debonair,
And winning welcome everywhere,
A dainty fop has passed me by:
I did not see but felt him nigh,
And though he dared to kiss my cheek,
He did not speak, he did not speak!
Shall I confess, beneath the rose,
A secret you must ne'r disclose,—
That almost every summer day
This lover kisses me in play?
But whence he comes or where he goes
No mortal knows, no mortal knows.
A cultured taste in him I find,
And proof of an aesthetic mind;
He winnows first the clover fields,
And, next the rose aroma yields;
Now who can tell me, from the scent.
Which way he went, which way he went?
A connoisseur of rich perfumes,
To-day he steals from lilac blooms;
To-morrow leaves the garden belles,
And flies to woodbine-scented dells:
Who could resist the sighing swain,
Nor kiss again, nor kiss again?
Like Psyche, in my arbors green,
I wait for him I ne'er have seen;
His fragrant breath betrays him nigh—
His fragrant breath and gentle sigh,
As though a burden on his breast
Was ne'er confessed, was ne'er confessed.
To none is this gay rover true;
He charms each day with odors new;
But when, where hides the partridge vine,
He finds the Lady Eglantine,
And when for her he leaves the rest,
I love him best, I love him best.
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