A delicate thing is our bird withal
And owns but a fickle appetite,
So that old and young take a keen delight
In serving it ever, day and night,
With the last gay heart now turned to gall.
Thus, though a dainty dear, it sings
In a very well-conditioned way
A truly wonderful sort of lay,
Whose burden is ever the same—They Say—
Darting its dabbled beak under its wings.
WAYWARD LOVE.
I leant above your chair last night,
And on your brow once and again,
I pressed a kiss as still and light
As I would have your bosom's pain.
You did not feel the gentle touch,
It gave you neither grief nor pleasure,
Though that caress held, oh, so much,
Of love and blessing without measure.
Thus ever when I see you sad,
My heart toward you overflows;
But when again you're gay and glad,
I shrink back into cold repose,
I know not why I like you best,
O'erclouded by a passing sorrow—
Unless because it gives a zest
To the insouciance of to-morrow.
You're welcome to my light caress,
And all the love that with it went;
To live, and love you any less,
