The Surprise

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TO---


  I marked her grave and nun-like air,
  When all beside were gay and free;
  And true, I said, the face is fair,
  But that was ne'er enough for me.
  And Her's, I grant, are speaking eyes,
  And Her's is brow of thoughtful mould;
  but these will never win the wise,
  When linked with heart too calm and cold.
  For me, a frost so chill and deep,
  I cannot tarry for its breaking;
  These sleeping Beauties—let 'em sleep,
  I never knew one worth the waking.

  And so I talked—till—on a day—
  Lured by I know not what vagary,
  She put such store of charms in play.
  Such frolic graces, smiles so airy;
  With cadences like music strung,
  And sense with feeling so commingling,
  That I though staid, and not too young,
  Felt, like the rest, my bosom tingling.
  A foolish tingling—yet so dear,
  An idle—yet so sweet a pain,
  I knew not if to wish, or fear
  That she were calm and cold again.

© John Kenyon