RED RIDING-HOOD

Sweet little myth of the nursery story —

Earliest love of mine infantile breast,

Be something tangible, bloom in thy glory

Into existence, as thou art addressed!

Hasten! appear to me, guileless and good —

Thou are so dear to me, Red Riding-Hood!

Azure-blue eyes, in a marvel of wonder,

Over the dawn of a blush breaking out;

Sensitive nose, with a little smile under

Trying to hide in a blossoming pout —

Could n't be serious, try as you would,

Little mysterious Red Riding-Hood!

Hah! little girl, it is desolate, lonely,

Out in this gloomy old forest of Life!—

Here are not pansies and buttercups only —

Brambles and briers as keen as a knife;

And a Heart, ravenous, trails in the wood

For the meal have he must,— Red Riding-Hood!