The Belle
A smile—could it be meant for me?—
Yet there she stood before me.
But she had charm’d so many eyes
And I was neither rich nor wise,—
The belle of all the county, she:
I seem’d a child,
She only smiled
Because she knew her mien was mild,
While mine confusion bore me.
And praise—could it be meant for me?—
Ah, how could I suppose it?
The rarest minds I knew about
Had held her gauge of them in doubt.
A prize past all I hoped for, she;
But young was I;
And this was why
She thought my pride to gratify;
Yet I could but disclose it.
A blush—could it be meant for me?—
Yet so she met no other.
A face that all with joy would meet,
Could it have blush’d my own to greet?
A belle whom all had sought for, she;
Yet I could see
Heave but for me
A sigh that strove and would be free.
I spoke to free another.
She answer’d—All was meant for me
Whom rivals off were shoving;
And all my love had burst in flame
To feel her ardor while it came.
“A woman, whosoe’er she be,
Is nothing more,
O loved of yore,
Than just a woman, nothing o’er,
And can but love the loving.”