Nor azure eyes, nor golden hair
Hath she. She is--I am not blind--
Not fair.

What makes me love her, then? say you,
For such a maid is not my wont.
Love her! What makes you think I do?
I don't.



To Myrtilla Again


Myrtilla, when the thought of you
Obstructs my cold, unbiased view,
And keeps me from
My hard though hum-
Ble task,
I do not murmur nor complain
I do not ululate nor feign
A love for _vin_
Or what is in
A flask.

When, as I said in stanza first,
My mind is thoroughly immersed
With you until
My pulses thrill
And throb,