RED RIDING-HOOD

Sweet little myth of the nursery story — Earliest love of mine infantile breast, Be something tangible, bloom in thy glory Into existence, as thou art addressed!

Hasten! appear to me, guileless and good — Thou are so dear to me, Red Riding-Hood! Azure-blue eyes, in a marvel of wonder, Over the dawn of a blush breaking out;

Sensitive nose, with a little smile under Trying to hide in a blossoming pout — Could n't be serious, try as you would, Little mysterious Red Riding-Hood!

Hah! little girl, it is desolate, lonely, Out in this gloomy old forest of Life!— Here are not pansies and buttercups only — Brambles and briers as keen as a knife;

And a Heart, ravenous, trails in the wood For the meal have he must,— Red Riding-Hood!