by Arlo Bates
THY laugh's a song an oriole trilled,
Romping in glee the sky,—
Sunshine in lucent drops distilled,
And showered from on high.
So perfect in his song thou art,
That when thy laughter rings
I long to clasp thee to my heart,
Lest, too, thou have his wings!
Kit, the recording angel wrote
That cruel "no" you said,
And smiled to think how in your throat
You choked a "yes" instead;
Then sighed in envy of the look
That promised me your grace;
And on the margin of his book
Limned in excuse your face.
Last updated May 13, 2023