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Coventry Patmore - Mignonne
Work rating: Low

Whate`er thou dost thou`rt dear.
              Uncertain troubles sanctify
              That magic well-spring of the willing tear,
              Thine eye.
              Thy jealous fear,
              With not the rustle of a rival near;
              Thy careless disregard of all
              My tenderest care;
              Thy dumb despair
               When thy keen wit my worship may construe
               Into contempt of thy divinity;
               They please me too!
               But should it once befall
               These accidental charms to disappear,
               Leaving withal
               Thy sometime self the same throughout the year,
               So glowing, grave and shy,
               Kind, talkative and dear
               As now thou sitt`st to ply
               The fireside tune     
               Of that neat engine deft at which thou sew`st
               With fingers mild and foot like the new moon,
               O, then what cross of any further fate
               Could my content abate?
               Forget, then, (but I know
               Thou canst not so,)
               Thy customs of some prædiluvian state.
               I am no Bullfinch, fair my Butterfly,
               That thou should`st try
               Those zigzag courses, in the welkin clear;
               Nor cruel Boy that, fledd`st thou straight
               Or paused, mayhap
               Might catch thee, for thy colours, with his cap.
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