Constance.

Beyond the orchard, in the lane,     The crested red-bird sings again -     O bird, whose song says, Have no care.     Should I not care when CONSTANCE there, -     My CONSTANCE, with the bashful gaze,     Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock, -     If I declare my love, just says     Some careless thing as if in mock?     Like - Past the orchard, in the lane,     How sweet the red-bird sings again!     There, while the red-bird sings his best,     His listening mate sits on the nest -     O bird, whose patience says, All's well,     How can it be with me, now tell?     When CONSTANCE, with averted eyes, -     Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea, -     If I speak marriage, just replies     With some such quaint irrelevancy,     As, While the red-bird sings his best,     His loving mate sits on the nest.     What shall I say? what can I do?     Would such replies mean aught to you,     O birds, whose gladness says, Be glad?     Have I not reason to be sad     When CONSTANCE, with demurest glance,     Her face a-poppy with distress,     If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,     And answers so in waywardness? -     What shall I say? what can I do?     My meaning should be plain to you!