TO ESTELLE

By Edward Smyth Jones

Coy, sweet maid, I love so well,

Fair Estelle.

How much I love thee tongue can n't tell,

Sweet Estelle.

But I love thee — love thee true —

More than violets love the dew,

More than roses love the sun —

Do I love thee, dearest one,

Dear Estelle!

Ah! my heart love's passions swell

For Estelle!

How I love my actions tell

Thee, Estelle:

That I love thy smiling face,

And thy captivating grace —

Love thy dreamy‘ witching eyes

More than planets love the skies,

Wee Estelle!

Now I smite my lyre to swell

For Estelle;

Music's most entrancing spell

O'er Estelle.

With my fingers on my keys,

Like the balmy morning breeze

Stealing softly through the grain,

Will I gently wake a strain

For Estelle!

How I love my little belle,

My Estelle!

Deepest in my sacred dell

Is Estelle!

I esteem my maiden love

More than angels high above,

More than demons in the sea;

Love is light and life to me,

And Estelle!