Constance

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!”