Beyond the orchard, in the lane,
The crested red-bird sings again--
O bird, whose song says, _Have no care._
Should I not care when CONSTANCE there,--
My CONSTANCE, with the bashful gaze,
Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,--
If I declare my love, just says
Some careless thing as if in mock?
Like--_Past the orchard, in the lane,
How sweet the red-bird sings again_!
There, while the red-bird sings his best,
His listening mate sits on the nest--
O bird, whose patience says, _All's well_,
How can it be with me, now tell?
When CONSTANCE, with averted eyes,--
Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,--
If I speak marriage, just replies
With some such quaint irrelevancy,
As, _While the red-bird sings his best,
His loving mate sits on the nest_.
What shall I say? what can I do?
Would such replies mean aught to you,
O birds, whose gladness says, _Be glad_?
Have I not reason to be sad
When CONSTANCE, with demurest glance,
Her face a-poppy with distress,
If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,
And answers so in waywardness?--
_What shall I say? what can I do?
My meaning should be plain to you!_
