But I’ve managed, very nearly, To believe that I was dearly Loved by Somebody, who (blushing like a peach) Flung it o’er me saying, “Wear it For my sake”—and I declare, it Seldom strikes me that I bought it on the beach. I can see myself revealing Unsuspected depths of feeling, As, in tones that half upbraid and half beseech, I aver with what delight I Would give anything—my right eye— For a souvenir of our stroll upon the beach. O! that eye that never glisten’d And that voice to which I’ve listen’d But in fancy, how I dote upon them each! How regardless what o’clock it Is, I pore upon that locket Which does not contain her portrait, on the beach! As if something were inside it I laboriously hide it, And a rather pretty sermon you might preach Upon Fantasy, selecting For your “instance” the affecting Tale of me and my proceedings on the beach. I depict her, ah, how charming! I portray myself alarming Herby swearing I would “mount the deadly breach,” Or engage in any scrimmage For a glimpse of her sweet image, Or her shadow, or her footprint on the beach. And I’m ever ever seeing My imaginary Being, And I’d rather that my marrowbones should bleach In the winds, than that a cruel Fate should snatch from me the jewel Which I bought for one and sixpence on the beach. LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION. IN moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean: Meaning, however, is no great matter) Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween; Thro’ God’s own heather we wonn’d together, I and my Willie (O love my love): I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitterbats waver’d alow, above: Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing, (Boats in that climate are so polite), And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, And O the sundazzle on bark and bight! Thro’ the rare red heather we danced together, (O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers: I must mention again it was gorgeous weather, Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:— By rises that flush’d with their purple favours, Thro’ becks that brattled o’er grasses sheen, We walked and waded, we two young shavers, Thanking our stars we were both so green. We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, In fortunate parallels! Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes: Songbirds darted about, some inky As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky— They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds! But they skim over bents which the midstream washes, Or hang in the lift ’neath a white cloud’s hem; They need no parasols, no goloshes; And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.