Ah! can the guileless maiden share The wish that lifts that passionate prayer? Is all at peace that breast within? Good angels! warn her of the sin! Alas! what boots it? who can save A willing victim of the wave? Who cleanse a soul that loves its guilt? Or gather wine when wine is spilt? We quit the holy house and gain The open air; then, happy twain, Adown familiar streets we go, And now and then she turns to show, With fears that all is changing fast, Some spot that's sacred to her Past. Here by this way, through shadows cool, A little maid, she tripped to school; And there each morning used to stop Before a wonder of a shop Where, built of apples and of pears, Rose pyramids of golden spheres; While, dangling in her dazzled sight, Ripe cherries cast a crimson light, And made her think of elfin lamps, And feast and sport in fairy camps, Whereat, upon her royal throne (Most richly carved in cherry-stone), Titania ruled, in queenly state, The boisterous revels of the fête! 'T was yonder, with their "horrid" noise, Dismissed from books, she met the boys, Who, with a barbarous scorn of girls, Glanced slightly at her sunny curls, And laughed and leaped as reckless by As though no pretty face were nigh! But--here the maiden grows demure-- Indeed she's not so VERY sure, That in a year, or haply twain, Who looked e'er failed to look again, And sooth to say, I little doubt (Some azure day, the truth will out!) That certain baits in certain eyes Caught many an unsuspecting prize; And somewhere underneath these eaves A budding flirt put forth its leaves!