A Song.

        Spring-time is coming again, my dear;
            Sunshine and violets blue, you know;
        Crocuses lifting their sleepy heads
            Out of their sheets of snow.
        And I know a blossom sweeter by far
        That violets blue, or crocuses are,
            And bright as the sunbeam's glow.
        But how can I dare to look in her eyes,
            Colored with heaven's own hue?
        That wouldn't do at all, my dear,
            It really wouldn't do.

        Her hair is a rippling, tossing sea;
            In its golden depths the fairies play,
        Beckoning, dancing, mocking there,
            Luring my heart away.
        And her merry lips are the ripest red
        That ever addled a poor man's head,
            Or led his wits astray.
        What wouldn't I give to taste the sweets
            Of those rose-leaves wet with dew!
        But that wouldn't do at all, my dear,
            It really wouldn't do.

        Her voice is gentle, and clear and pure;
            It rings like the chime of a silver bell,
        And the thought it wakes in my foolish head,
            I'm really afraid to tell.
        Her little feet kiss the ground below,
        And her hand is white as the whitest snow
            That e'er from heaven fell.
        But I wouldn't dare to take that hand,
            Reward for my love to sue;
        That wouldn't do at all, my dear,
            It really wouldn't do.