My Lady promenades the drive And smiles upon me, quite contented In knowledge that, howe'er I strive, I am about her half demented. One small gloved hand rests on my arm With lightest touch, almost caressing, That fills me with a vague alarm That it may feel my heart confessing. My Lady wears a silken dress That rustles in the breeze contrary; She fights the wind in gay distress, And blushes like a rosy fairy. O saucy wind, be not unkind! Your gentler mood is more assuring; And yet, to my enraptured mind, You make My Lady most alluring! But yesterday I strolled alone Upon the drive, and thought it gloomy; I noticed that the birds had flown And longed for summer, green and bloomy. To-day the singing birds are here, And carol in My Lady's laughter; O, will you be my June, my dear, And all the golden days thereafter? |