To Phœbe

“GENTLE, modest, little flower,

Sweet epitome of May,

Love me but for half-an-hour,

Love me, love me, little fay.”

Sentences so fiercely flaming

In your tiny shell-like ear,

I should always be exclaiming

If I loved you, PHŒBE, dear.

“Smiles that thrill from any distance

Shed upon me while I sing!

Please ecstaticise existence,

Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!”

Words like these, outpouring sadly,

You’d perpetually hear,

If I loved you, fondly, madly;—

But I do not, PHŒBE, dear.