SINCE Gaston kissed and rode away, Babette sits weeping all the day, And goes no more to fete or fair, Who one time was the gayest there. The cure says, and so say I, "Love is a sorry thing to try. "My niece," says he, "hath too much wit Ever to give a thought to it." "O Uncle, yea!" I cry. Wherefore I treat the lads with scorn -- I toss my curls at maids forlorn; Still, one May night, I chanced to see Where Jean went walking with Marie, And suddenly he bent -- and O! My cheek was red as hers I know. It did not seem so @3wrong,@1 and yet How sad she is, that poor Babette! And Uncle says and so say I, "Love is a sorry thing to try." But Easter, when I went to mass, The miller's Raoul watched me pass With such black eyes -- I laughed and then, I know not why -- I looked again; And when Marie and Jean came by I felt so @3sad@1 -- I wonder why. And last night in the garden he -- (Saints! had the cure chanced to see!) "My niece," says he, "hath too much wit Ever to give a thought to it." "O Uncle, yea!" I cry. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JUNE (1) by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE LONELY HOUSE by EMILY DICKINSON THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS by RUDYARD KIPLING TOM MOONEY by WILLIAM ELLERY LEONARD THE OLD HOKUM BUNCOMBE by ROBERT EMMET SHERWOOD THE MEDITATION OF THE OLD FISHERMAN by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS THE SCHOLARS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |