To Lizbie Browne
Dear Lizbie Browne,Where are you now?In sun, in rain?—Or is your browPast joy, past pain,Dear Lizbie Browne?
Sweet Lizbie BrowneHow you could smile,How you could sing!—How archly wileIn glance-giving,Sweet Lizbie Browne!
And, Lizbie Browne,Who else had hairBay-red as yours,Or flesh so fairBred out of doors,Sweet Lizbie Browne?
When, Lizbie Browne,You had just begunTo be endearedBy stealth to one,You disappearedMy Lizbie Browne!
Ay, Lizbie Browne,So swift your life,And mine so slow,You were a wifeEre I could showLove, Lizbie Browne.
Still, Lizbie Browne,You won, they said,The best of menWhen you were wed . . .Where went you then,O Lizbie Browne?
Dear Lizbie Browne,I should have thought,“Girls ripen fast,”And coaxed and caughtYou ere you passed,Dear Lizbie Browne!
But, Lizbie Browne,I let you slip;Shaped not a sign;Touched never your lipWith lip of mine,Lost Lizbie Browne!
So, Lizbie Browne,When on a dayMen speak of meAs not, you’ll say,“And who was he?”—Yes, Lizbie Browne!
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