English

Her cheek is so pink,
And it don't seem to vary:
Must we say what we think? —
Her cheek is so pink:
From reflections we shrink,
And of comments are chary; —
Her cheek is so pink,
And it don't seem to vary!

There she sits in her box, —
And is Music her passion? —
She's as cross as John Knox;
There she sits in her box.

" But they see one's new frocks,
And it is so the fashion! "
There she sits in her box, —
And is Music her passion?

Who are those by the door? —
Our host and our hostess? —
Never saw them before:
Who are those by the door?
He looks such an old bore, —
She's as white as a " ghostess; "
Who are those by the door? —
Our host !! and our hostess !!!

She's not asked to the Ball,
O, Despair! Desolation!
And it's marked " Very small, "
She's not asked to the Ball:
She has rushed off to call,
But still no invitation!
She's not asked to the Ball,
O, Despair! Desolation!

Not a thousand a year!
What a shock to Belgravia!
She has married , my dear, —
Not a thousand a year!
Did the world ever hear
Of such selfish behaviour?
Not a thousand a year!
What a shock to Belgravia!

Ah! they sit out the dance
In a leaf-hidden corner:
Now is Corydon's chance, —
Ah! they sit out the dance:
See her timorous glance!
He's as pleased as Jack Horner!
Ah! they sit out the dance
In a leaf-hidden corner!

The crimson sun has reached the ridge,
I linger on the oaken bridge
Fine-filigreed with yestern snow;
O'er distant wood and rolling park
Film upon film steals on the dark,
And dulls the borrowed eastern glow

No faintest sigh of northwind stirs
The canopy of arching firs,
The alder-branches half-revealed;
A rabbit moves the crispening brake,
The wildfowl flighting from the lake
Wheel high, and circle for the field.

Six months agone the fern was green,
The alders wore their summer sheen,

Low in the valley the wreathing mist
Tells its tale of the year grown old;
A slanting beam on the hill has kissed
The beeches' russet, the birches' gold:
As I stand and gaze from the faded grass
Up to the faint October blue,
Line above line the wildfowl pass,
Winging westward from me to you.

Lady mine, is it fault of mine,
Or deed of yours, that we stand asunder?
Fanciful Chance, or high Design? —
Do you ever spare me a thought, I wonder?
Pity, perhaps, for a life forlorn, —

I met you all the Season long,
I loved you from its chill beginning;
Who else could show, throughout the throng,
A smile so soft, or eyes so winning?
Diana in the early Park, —
At every ball you reigned as Venus; —
And right and left was heard remark,
We soon should settle it between us.

An Ascot week, — a cloudless dream; —
An idle day at Burnham Beeches; —
An evening's dawdle down the stream
Along the shady Clieveden reaches; —
And often, spite your chaperon's qualms,

Across the lawn, adown the walk,
We carried our familiar talk,
By paths yew-shaded;
The rain was past, but dewy yet
It left your hand, this violet
Which here lies faded.

We scanned the sleeping lily-beds,
The daffodils' unrestful heads,
The primrose border;
Below the din of nesting rooks,
You reckoned up your favourite books
In gracious order

We walked the fields with Lily Dale ,
We sighed that Hetty spurned her pail
In wayward fancy,