I loved a girl, divinely sweet,

An unsophisticated creature;

I did not scruple to repeat

She was divine, you could not meet

More charms displayed in form and feature.

I loved her youthful grace, her slight

And dainty form, an angel's seeming.

Crowned by sweet hair, as dark as night,

Her face would charm an artist's sight,

A poet's thoughts, a lover's dreaming.

I loved her dark and lustrous eyes,

Which love might light with glowing passion,

Her lips, her neck—you will surmise

I wrote her rhymes, all tears and sighs

In lovesick versifier's fashion.

I loved her like a childish pet,

I felt I could not love another,

Until the day when first I met

Her widowed mother, charming yet,

And now, instead, I love her mother.

I love the woman, for the rose,

Full blown, excels the rosebud's beauty,

Nor think of girlish charms since those

No more inspire my Muse, which shows

My Muse is fit for any duty.

I love her, stately as a queen

Whom Veronese might have painted,

Blue-eyed, with hair of golden sheen—

That's just the one thing which has been

A trouble since we've been acquainted.

I love not charms I loved before,

Dark as the night, or, say a hearse is.

Now auburn beauty pleases more,

My wasted hours I deplore—

I've had to alter all those verses.

"If doughty deeds my lady please,"

Though somewhat old and gouty,

The first occasion I will seize

Of doing something "doughty";

"If gay attire delights your eye,

I'll dight me in array"

Which every casual passer-by

Will think extremely gay.

"If sweetest sounds can win your ear,"

I'll cheerfully begin

(Though somewhat late in life, I fear),

To learn the violin;

In fact, whatever task you set,

You'll speedily discover

That in the writer you have met

A most submissive lover.

I could exemplify the fact

Through several extra verses,

How I would please, by every act,

My kindliest of Circe's;

And yet by destiny malign

You've happened just to choose

The single task which, though divine

The bidder, I refuse.

The single task—and pardon, pray,

If, not without compunction,

Reluctantly I disobey

Your positive injunction:

Ask what you will, I'll undertake

The deed, however big,

But do not——blind my eyes and make

Me try to draw a pig!

You pretty face, upon my wall,

Enshrined in glass and oak and gold,

Most charming deaf-mute—and withal

My confidante—whate'er befall,

My trust in you will rest untold,

You pretty face!

What do they call you? Is it "Spring"?

Or "Blossoms"? or "The Coming Race"?—

It matters not in any case,

Your name may be just anything

For all I care, you pretty face.

You bring me back old scenes anew,

You've something of my lady's grace,

Of her sweet features just a trace,

And so I have re-christened you—

I won't say what—you pretty face!

I have no portrait to recall

The sweetest of all maids to me,

Nor have I need of one at all,

Yet, seeing you upon my wall,

By pleasing "make-believe" I see

Her pretty face!