XI
The Lovers
The rose did caper on her cheek,Her bodice rose and fell,Her pretty speech, like drunken men,Did stagger pitiful.
Her fingers fumbled at her work,—Her needle would not go;What ailed so smart a little maidIt puzzled me to know,
Till opposite I spied a cheekThat bore another rose;Just opposite, another speechThat like the drunkard goes;
A vest that, like the bodice, dancedTo the immortal tune,—Till those two troubled little clocksTicked softly into one.