It came not at command.
And should I press the little hand
That lay within my own,
I'd have you blush and whisper, Don't,
In a forgiving tone.
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Nay, more, I'd have the grasp returned,
But with a timid touch,
Not with a stolid unconcern
As if you cared as much.
And when my arm is round your waist
And lips about to clash,
I'd have you struggle from affright -
Not that I'd crush your sash.
Yes, love, though you are very fair,
Your arrows do not hurt;
For though you have a world of wit,
You know not how to flirt.
Z.