A Problem

My darling has a merry eye,
And voice like silver bells:
How shall I win her, prithee, say,—
By what magic spells?

If I frown, she shakes her head;
If I weep, she smiles:
Time would fail me to recount
All her wilful wiles.

She flouts me so,—she stings me so,—
Yet will not let me stir,—
In vain I try to pass her by,
My little chestnut bur.

When I yield to every whim,
She straight begins to pout.
Teach me how to read my love,
How to find her out!

For flowers she gives me thistle-blooms,—
Her turtle-doves are crows,—
I am the groaning weather-vane,
And she the wind that blows.

My little love! My teasing love!
Was woman made for man,—
A rose that blossomed from his side?
Believe it—those who can.
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