Although I put away his life —
An Ornament too grand
For Forehead low as mine, to wear,
This might have been the Hand
That sowed the flower, he preferred —
Or smoothed a homely pain,
Or pushed the pebble from his path —
Or played his chosen tune —
On Lute the least — the latest —
But just his Ear could know
That whatsoe’er delighted it,
I never would let go —
The foot to bear his errand —
A little Boot I know —
Would leap abroad like Antelope —
With just the grant to do —
His weariest Commandment —
A sweeter to obey,
Than “Hide and Seek” —
Or skip to Flutes —
Or all Day, chase the Bee —
Your Servant, Sir, will weary —
The Surgeon, will not come —
The World, will have its own — to do —
The Dust, will vex your Fame —
The Cold will force your tightest door
Some February Day,
But say my apron bring the sticks
To make your Cottage gay —
That I may take that promise
To Paradise, with me —
To teach the Angels, avarice,
You, Sir, taught first — to me.
I loved a man who was too good for me, but it is pleasant to think what it might have been like married to him.