Maiden, hastening to be wise,
Maiden, reading with a rage,
Envy fluttereth round the page
Whereupon thy downward eyes
Rove and rest, and melt maybe—
Virgin eyes one may not see,
Gathering as the bee
Takes from cherry tree;
As the robin's bill
Frets the window sill,
Maiden, bird, and bee,
Three from me half hid,
Doing what we did
When our minds were free.
Those romantic pages wist
What romance is in the look.
Oh, that I could be so bold,
So romantic as to bold
Half an hour the pensive wrist,
And the burden of the book.