To A. M. M.

She is so shy, this little love of mine,

So pale and pure, almost I fear to speak

The love that thrills my every pulse like wine

Yet brings no answering flush to her fair cheek.

She is so calm that Passion's stirring strain

To chanson soft and low unbidden dies;

The while her longing lover sighs in vain

For one soft love-glance from her down-dropped eyes.

A lily she that from its garden bed,

Into the golden sunshine glad and sweet

Lifts to far sapphire skies its radiant head,

Unheedful of the base weeds at its feet.

Yet — should one loving reverently kneel

And draw the lily's close-shut leaves apart,

Perchance those waxen petals might reveal

Enshrined within, a glowing golden heart.