Poems (Chandler)/A Problem

by Louise Chandler Moulton

A PROBLEM.

Y darling has a merry eye,
 And voice like silver bells:
How shall I win her, prithee, say;—
 By what magic spells?

If I frown, she shakes her head;
 If I weep, she smiles:
Time would fail me to recount
 All her wilful wiles.

She flouts me so,—she stings me so,—
 Yet will not let me stir,—
In vain I try to pass her by,
 My little chestnut bur.

When I yield to every whim,
 She straight begins to pout.
Teach me how to read my love,
 How to find her out!

For flowers she gives me thistle-blooms,—
 Her turtle-doves are crows,—
I am the groaning weather-vane,
 And she the wind that blows.

My little love! My teasing love
 Was woman made for man,—
A rose that blossomed from his side?
 Believe it—those who can.