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James Whitcomb Riley - The Little Lady
Work rating: Low

O The Little Lady`s dainty
    As the picture in a book,
  And her hands are creamy-whiter
    Than the water-lilies look;
  Her laugh`s the undrown`d music
    Of the maddest meadow-brook.--
  Yet all in vain I praise The Little Lady!

  Her eyes are blue and dewy
    As the glimmering Summer-dawn,--
  Her face is like the eglantine
    Before the dew is gone;
  And were that honied mouth of hers
    A bee`s to feast upon,
  He`d be a bee bewildered, Little Lady!

  Her brow makes light look sallow;
    And the sunshine, I declare,
  Is but a yellow jealousy
    Awakened by her hair--
  For O the dazzling glint of it
    Nor sight nor soul can bear,--
  So Love goes groping for The Little Lady.

  And yet she`s neither Nymph nor Fay,
    Nor yet of Angelkind:--
  She`s but a racing school-girl, with
    Her hair blown out behind
  And tremblingly unbraided by
    The fingers of the Wind,
  As it wildly swoops upon The Little Lady.
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