And he so near, so near!

How shall I meet him?

Why how but as the river leaps to sea,

Steel to its magnet, child to mother's arms?

[She catches up flowers from the baskets left by the

courtiers, and decks herself mildly.

Flowers for my hair, flowers at the breast! Sweet flowers,

He'll crush you 'gainst his corslet. He has arms

Like bands of iron for clasping, has my love.

He'll hurt, he'll hurt ... But oh, sweet flowers, to lie

And feel you helpless while he grips and bruises

Your weak protesting breasts! You'll die in bliss,

Panting your fragrance out.--

Wh'st! Hush, poor fool!

I have unlearned love's very alphabet.

Men like us coy, demure ... Then I'll coquet

To-morrow I'll be shrewish, shy, perverse,

Exacting, cold--all April in my moods:

We'll walk the forest, and I'll slip from him,

Hide me like Dryad 'mid the oaks, and mark

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