Each morning when we met, I think Some sentiment did us two link-- Nor joy, nor sorrow; And then at eve, experience-taught, Our hearts returned upon the thought,-- _We meet to-morrow_! And you were poor; and how?--and why? How kind to come! it was for my Especial grace meant! Had you a chamber near the stars, A bird,--some treasured plants in jars, About your casement? I often wander up and down, When morning bathes the silent town In golden glory: Perchance, unwittingly, I've heard Your thrilling-toned canary-bird From some third story. I've seen great changes since we met;-- A patient little seamstress yet, With small means striving, Have you a Lilliputian spouse? And do you dwell in some doll's house? --Is baby thriving? Can bloom like thine--my heart grows chill-- Have sought that bourne unwelcome still To bosom smarting? The most forlorn--what worms we are!-- Would wish to finish this cigar Before departing. Sometimes I to Pall Mall repair, And see the damsels passing there; But if I try to Obtain one glance, they look discreet, As though they'd some one else to meet;-- As have not _I_ too? Yet still I often think upon Our many meetings, come and gone! July--December! Now let us make a tryst, and when, Dear little soul, we meet again,-- The mansion is preparing--then Thy Friend remember! GERALDINE. This simple child has claims On your sentiment--her name's Geraldine. Be tender--but beware, For she's frolicsome as fair, And fifteen. She has gifts that have not cloyed, For these gifts she has employed, And improved: She has bliss which lives and leans Upon loving--and that means She is loved. She has grace. A grace refined By sweet harmony of mind: And the Art, And the blessed Nature, too, Of a tender, and a true Little heart. And yet I must not vault Over any little fault That she owns: Or others might rebel, And might enviously swell In their zones. She is tricksy as the fays, Or her pussy when it plays With a string: She's a goose about her cat, And her ribbons--and all that Sort of thing. These foibles are a blot, Still she never can do what Is not nice, Such as quarrel, and give slaps-- As I've known her get, perhaps, Once or twice. The spells that move her soul Are subtle--sad or droll-- She can show That virtuoso whim Which consecrates our dim Long-ago. A love that is not sham For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb; And I've known Cordelia's sad eyes Cause angel-tears to rise In her own.