TO ——.

What are the subtleties

Which woo me in her eyes

To oaths she deems but lies,

I can not tell, I can not tell,

Nor will she.

They are beyond my thought.

For when I gaze I'm nought,

My senses all unwrought,

It is not well, it is not well,

Now Lily!

What is the magic sweet

Which makes hot pulses beat,

A wayward tongue repeat

A name for weeks, a name for weeks

Will, nill he?

Ai me! the pleasant pain

Falls sweetly on the brain

Like some slow sunny rain,

Whene'er she speaks, whene'er she speaks

This Lily.

What is the witchery rare

Which snares me in her hair

So deeply that I dare,

I dare not move, I dare not move,—

Lie stilly?

In looks and winning ways

The bloom of love she lays

Like fire on all my days,

And makes me love, and makes me love

This Lily.