Angelica, 2

Once more behind thee thou wert looking,
Swiftly as thou didst past me glide,
With open mouth, as if inquiring,
And in thy look a stormy pride.

O that I ne’er had sought to grasp it,
That flowing robe of snowy white!
The little foot’s enchanting traces,
O that they ne’er had met my sight!

Thy wildness now indeed hath vanish’d,
Like other women tame art thou,
And mild, and somewhat over-civil,
And, ah, thou even lov’st me now.