But don't suspect that I'm her lover.
And there are pipes and long cigars
With sugar-plums so neatly laden;
And here are gilt and silver stars,
Pinned on my coat by many a maiden.
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But don't suppose that I'm in love,
Although just now it is the fashion;
My thoughts are soaring far above
To fame, - a nobler, deeper passion.
And yet methinks I did forget
One favor in this category, -
It is a sprig of mignonette,
Now withered and bereft of glory.
Of her who gave what shall I say?
The less perhaps will be the better,
For dreams of fame may pass away,
But I will nevermore forget her.
X.