THEY may talk of love in a cottage, And bowers of trellised vine -- Of nature bewitchingly simple, And milkmaids half divine; They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping In the shade of a spreading tree, And a walk in the fields at morning, By the side of a footstep free! But give me a sly flirtation By the light of a chandelier -- With music to play in the pauses, And nobody very near; Or a seat on a silken sofa, With a glass of pure old wine, And mamma too blind to discover The small white hand in mine. Your love in a cottage is hungry, Your vine is a nest for flies -- Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies! You lie down to your shady slumber And wake with a bug in your ear, And your damsel that walks in the morning Is shod like a mountaineer. True love is at home on a carpet, And mightily likes his ease -- And true love has an eye for a dinner, And starves beneath shady trees. His wing is the fan of a lady, His foot's an invisible thing, And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel, And shot from a silver string. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LOST SHEEP by SARAH PRATT MCCLAIN GREENE THE WATER WHEEL by ABU ABD ALLAH THE WOOD THRUSH by SUSAN SHARP ADAMS MY FRIEND by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS EUMARES by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS ON A CHILD SLEEPING IN CYNTHIA'S LAP by PHILIP AYRES THE DAWN PATROL by PAUL BEWSHER |