Mignonette

With lash on cheek, she comes and goes;

I watch her when she little knows:

I wonder if she dreams of it.

Sitting and working at my rhymes,

I weave into my verse at times

Her sunny hair, or gleams of it.

Upon her window-ledge is set

A box of flowering mignonette;

Morning and eve she tends to them --

The senseless flowers, that do not care

About that loosened strand of hair,

As prettily she bends to them.

If I could once contrive to get

Into that box of mignonette

Some morning when she tends to them --

She comes! I see the rich blood rise

From throat to cheek! -- down go the eyes,

Demurely, as she bends to them!