'TIS mine! what accents can my joy declare? Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair, That left the tempting corner hanging out! I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, After long travel to some distant shrine, When to the relic of his saint he kneels, For Delia's pocket-handkerchief is mine. When first with filching fingers I drew near, Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein, And when the finish'd deed removed my fear, Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain. What though the eighth commandment rose to mind, It only served a moment's qualm to move, For thefts like this it could not be design'd, The eighth commandment was not made for love! Here when she took the macaroons from me, She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet; Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips in thee! Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat. And when she took that pinch of Moohabaugh That made my love so delicately sneeze, Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw, And thou art doubly dear for things like these. No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth profane; For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair, And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CASEY AT THE BAT (2) by ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER JIM'S WHISTLE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON COMOS by ADRA CAROLINE BATCHELDER THE SONG OF HER by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 24, ASKING FOR HER HEART (2) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT TAKE YOUR CHOICE: OR HERE'S GRANTLAND RICE'S METHOD by BERTON BRALEY VIVAMUS by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES |