In a painted “Forest of Arden,” in the glare of the garish light,
In doublet and hose, be-powdered and rouged, you sigh to me night by night;
Attuned to the sway of your cadenced voice, as a harp to the wooing wind,
I thrill at the touch of your painted lips — for — “I am your Rosalind!”
Could you know that my art in seeming was a dearer thing than art,
That the love-words spoken nightly spring straight from a loving heart;
Could you know that my soul speaks to you — aye soul and spirit and mind!
When I gaze deep into your eyes and breathe — “And I am your Rosalind!”
To you‘ tis a vain dissembling — a part of the work of the day,
And the words that your voice makes music, but the dull, dead lines of the play.
Little you care for the woman you woo, save as a foil designed.
To prove your skill as a lover — yet — “I am your Rosalind!”