POETRY.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
I SHOULD like to have your dimples, Your wonderment, your nonsense, Your grave hands, and your tripping feet, Your carelessness, your conscience ; I should like to know the secrets You are talking with your brother Between the mazes of the dance, As your eyes meet one another.
Little maid, all eyes, and such eyes ! Half-lightning and half-laughter, Sugar-things I should like to eat, And never hunger, after: Tell me, little maid, do you believe That if you looked and looked, And turned into a tipsy-cake, The best that could be cooked, Do you think that if I swallowed you And incontinently died, That the judge would call it murder Or only suicide
Because I've drunk your beauty in ;- But you don't know what that means
Any more than beans, which pony loves, Can know that they are beans.
Good night, dear, dainty tipsy-cake, rm but a selfish jade,
Just whinnying to himself about The dinner he has made.
And I may not, may not keep you For my sweet-meat to enjoy, God has planned you for a help-meet For some happy, happy boy.
A. N. Sr. JOHN-MILDIRAY.
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