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 TO A PLAIN SWEETHEART

I love thee, dear, for what thou art, Nor would I wish thee otherwise, For when thy lashes lift apart I read, deep-mirrored in thine eyes, The glory of a modest heart.

Wert thou as fair as thou art good, It were not given to any man, With daring eyes of flesh and blood, To look thee in the face and scan The splendor of thy womanhood.

TO A ROBIN

I heard thee, joyous votary, Pour forth thy heart in one Sweet simple strain of melody To greet the rising sun, When he across the morning's verge his first faint flare had flung And found the crimson of thy breast the whisp'ring leaves among, In thine own tree Which sheltered thee, Thy mate, thy nest, thy young.