Beyond the orchard, in the lane,
The crested red-bird sings again —
O bird, whose song says, Have no care.
Should I not care when CONSTANCE there,—
My CONSTANCE, with the bashful gaze,
Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,—
If I declare my love, just says
Some careless thing as if in mock?
Like — Past the orchard, in the lane,
How sweet the red-bird sings again!
There, while the red-bird sings his best,
His listening mate sits on the nest —
O bird, whose patience says, All's well,
How can it be with me, now tell?
When CONSTANCE, with averted eyes,—
Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—
If I speak marriage, just replies
With some such quaint irrelevancy,
As, While the red-bird sings his best,
His loving mate sits on the nest.
What shall I say? what can I do?
Would such replies mean aught to you,
O birds, whose gladness says, Be glad?
Have I not reason to be sad
When CONSTANCE, with demurest glance,
Her face a-poppy with distress,
If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,
And answers so in waywardness?—
What shall I say? what can I do?
My meaning should be plain to you!