Page:The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter.djvu/175



, hearts that wear the willow, To you I tell my woe, Why thus uncared, ungartered, And all so pale I go.

Come, you wan lovers sighing Who too have felt the thorn. But let none heart-whole linger To laugh my grief to scorn.

Demure in church on Sunday My love I chanced to see. Amidst her gentle praying I vow she looked on me.

On Monday in the meadow I lingered by the stile, She did but touch my fingers. And passed me with a smile.

On Tuesday, mute and rosy, I stood upon her way, My heart it nigh betrayed me, “Good-morrow,” did she say.

With blushing cheek on Wednesday Her path she went all slow; How feared I such a fair maid?— I could not move to go.