Heart's dear demesne, dear Daintiness;
Close your tired eyes, but not to sleep. .
How very pale your pallor is!

You smile, your cheek's voluptuous line
Melts in your dimple's saucy cave.
Your hairbraids seem a wilful vine,
Scorning to imitate a wave.

Your voice is tenebrous, as if
An angel mocked a blackbird's pipe.
You are my magic orchard feoff,
Where bud and fruit are always ripe.

O apple garden! all the days
Are fain to crown the darling year.
Ephemeral bells and garland bays,
Shy blade and lusty, bursting ear.

In every kiss I call you mine,
Tell me, my dear, how pure, how brave
Our child will be! what velvet eyne,
What bonny hair our child will have!