O The Little Lady's dainty br As the picture in a book, br And her hands are creamy-whiter br Than the water-lilies look; br Her laugh's the undrown'd music br Of the maddest meadow-brook.-- br Yet all in vain I praise The Little Lady! br br Her eyes are blue and dewy br As the glimmering Summer-dawn,-- br Her face is like the eglantine br Before the dew is gone; br And were that honied mouth of hers br A bee's to feast upon, br He'd be a bee bewildered, Little Lady! br br Her brow makes light look sallow; br And the sunshine, I declare, br Is but a yellow jealousy br Awakened by her hair-- br For O the dazzling glint of it br Nor sight nor soul can bear,-- br So Love goes groping for The Little Lady. br br And yet she's neither Nymph nor Fay, br Nor yet of Angelkind:-- br She's but a racing school-girl, with br Her hair blown out behind br And tremblingly unbraided by br The fingers of the Wind, br As it wildly swoops upon The Little Lady.