TO D. M.
Thou art the first who ever tried My feelings thus to move,—The first who ever sought to win My wayward heart to love.
My fancy has been always free, As birds that cleave the sky,As though young Cupid ne'er drew bow. Or let an arrow fly.
Thy heart is pleading now for mine, But how shall I reply?We are so young, we both may change, E'en as the roses die.
Thy lips declare that naught on earth Could chill thy love for me,But Cupid is a cunning lad— He may prove false to thee.
