Part 1 — TO PHŒBE

"Gentle, modest, little flower, Sweet epitome of May, Love me but for half-an-hour, Love me, love me, little fay." Sentences so fiercely flaming In your tiny shell-like ear, I should always be exclaiming If I loved you, Phœbe, dear. "Smiles that thrill from any distance Shed upon me while I sing! Please ecstaticise existence, Love me, oh thou fairy thing!" Words like these, outpouring sadly. You'd perpetually hear, If I loved you, fondly, madly;— But I do not, Phœbe, dear.