LIKE summer skies her eyes of blue,
Streakt sunset are her locks of yellow;
And that I love her, must be true.
She only says, "You foolish fellow!"
I'd pour my free blood out for her
Were it the proper thing to pour it;
I love to madness, I aver;
And, oh! her sketching, I adore it!
Her Kensington embroidery
Would quite bereave a man of reason;
She sings like Gerster or Patti;
She waltzes in and out of season.
She treats her lovers, every one,
To winning smiles or gestures haughty;
She plays Chopin and Mendelssohn
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Princeton, 11; Harvard, 2.