html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Young Love, when tender mood beset him,
One morn to Lilla's casement flew,
Who raised it just so far to let him
Blow half his fragrant kisses through.
Love brought no perch on which to rest,
And Lilla had not one to give him,
And now the thought her soul distress'd
What should she do?—Where would she leave him?
Love maddens to be thus half caught,
His struggle Lilla's pain increases;
"He'll fly—he'll fly away (she thought),
Or beat himself and wings to pieces."
"His wings! why them I do not want—
The restless things make all this pother:"
Love tries to fly, but finds he can't,
And nestles near her like a brother.
Plumeless, we call him Friendship now;
Love smiles at acting such a part—
But what cares he for lover's vow
While thus perdu near Lilla's heart?