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,
Hark! how 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, come, tell?
When Constance, with averted eyes,—
Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—
If I talk 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 music says, “Be glad”?
Have I not reason to be sad
When Constance, with demurest glance,
Her face all poppied with distress,
If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,
And answers thus in waywardness?—
“What shall I say? what can I do?
My meaning should be plain to you!”