Constance.

Beyond the orchard, in the lane,

The crested red-bird sings again —

O bird, whose song says, Have no care.

Should I not care when CONSTANCE there,—

My CONSTANCE, with the bashful gaze,

Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,—

If I declare my love, just says

Some careless thing as if in mock?

Like — Past the orchard, in the lane,

How sweet the red-bird sings again!

There, while the red-bird sings his best,

His listening mate sits on the nest —

O bird, whose patience says, All's well,

How can it be with me, now tell?

When CONSTANCE, with averted eyes,—

Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—

If I speak marriage, just replies

With some such quaint irrelevancy,

As, While the red-bird sings his best,

His loving mate sits on the nest.

What shall I say? what can I do?

Would such replies mean aught to you,

O birds, whose gladness says, Be glad?

Have I not reason to be sad

When CONSTANCE, with demurest glance,

Her face a-poppy with distress,

If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,

And answers so in waywardness?—

What shall I say? what can I do?

My meaning should be plain to you!