The Little Lady
O The Little Lady's dainty
As the picture in a book,
And her hands are creamy-whiter
Than the water-lilies look;
Her laugh's the undrown'd music
Of the maddest meadow-brook.--
Yet all in vain I praise The Little Lady!
Her eyes are blue and dewy
As the glimmering Summer-dawn,--
Her face is like the eglantine
Before the dew is gone;
And were that honied mouth of hers
A bee's to feast upon,
He'd be a bee bewildered, Little Lady!
Her brow makes light look sallow;
And the sunshine, I declare,
Is but a yellow jealousy
Awakened by her hair--
For O the dazzling glint of it
Nor sight nor soul can bear,--
So Love goes groping for The Little Lady.
And yet she's neither Nymph nor Fay,
Nor yet of Angelkind:--
She's but a racing school-girl, with
Her hair blown out behind
And tremblingly unbraided by
The fingers of the Wind,
As it wildly swoops upon The Little Lady.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
