XV.

"The slight she-slips of loyal blood,
And others, passing praise,
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud

For puritanic stays:

XVI.

"And I have shadowed many a group

Of beauties, that were born

In teacup-times of hood and hoop,
Or while the patch was worn;

XVII.

"And, leg and arm with love-knots gay,

About me leaped and laughed

The modish Cupid of the day,

And shrilled his tinsel shaft.

XVIII.

"I swear (and else may insects prick

Each leaf into a gall)

This girl, for whom your heart is sick, Is three times worth them all;

XIX.

"For those and theirs, by Nature's law,

Have faded long ago;

But in these latter springs I saw

Your own Olivia blow,

XX.

"From when she gambolled on the greens,

A baby-germ, to when

The maiden blossoms of her teens

Could number five from ten.

XXI.

"I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain,
(And hear me with thine ears,)
That, though I circle in the grain
Five hundred rings of years

XXII.

Yet, since I first could cast a shade,

Did never creature pass

So slightly, musically made,

So light upon the grass:

XXIII.

"For as to fairies, that will flit
To make the greensward fresh,

I hold them exquisitely knit,
But far too spare of flesh."

XXIV.

O, hide thy knotted knees in fern,

And overlook the chace;

And from thy topmost branch discern

The roofs of Sumner-place.

XXV.

But thou, whereon I carved her name,

That oft hast heard my vows,

Declare when last Olivia came

To sport beneath thy boughs.

XXVI.

"O yesterday, you know, the fair
Was holden at the town;

Her father left his good arm-chair,
And rode his hunter down.

XXVII.

"And with him Albert came on his.

I looked at him with joy:

As cowslip unto oxlip is,

So seems she to the boy.

XXVIII.

“An hour had past—and, sitting straight Within the low-wheeled chaise,

Her mother trundled to the gate

Behind the dappled grays.

XXIX.

“But, as for her, she staid at home,
And on the roof she went,

And down the way you use to come
She looked with discontent.

XXX.

"She left the novel half-uncut Upon the rosewood shelf; She left the new piano shut :

She could not please herself.

XXXI.

“Then ran she, gamesome as the colt,

And livelier than a lark

She sent her voice through all the holt
Before her, and the park.

XXXII.

"A light wind chased her on the wing,
And in the chase grew wild,

As close as might be would he cling
About the darling child:

XXXIII.

"But light as any wind that blows

So fleetly did she stir,

The flower, she touched on, dipt and rose,

And turned to look at her.

XXXIV.

"And here she came, and round me played,

And sang to me the whole

Of those three stanzas that you

made