There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four
which I know not:
The way read more

There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four
which I know not:
The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock;
the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man
with a maid.

'Tis enough--
Who listens once will listen twice;
Her heart be sure is not of ice,
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'Tis enough--
Who listens once will listen twice;
Her heart be sure is not of ice,
And one refusal no rebuff.

How often in the summer-tide,
His graver business set aside,
His stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed
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How often in the summer-tide,
His graver business set aside,
His stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed
As to the pipe of Pan,
Stepped blithesomely with lover's pride
Across the fields to Anne.

Better be courted and jilted
Than never be courted at all.

Better be courted and jilted
Than never be courted at all.

Some are soon bagg'd but some reject three dozen.
'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals
And read more

Some are soon bagg'd but some reject three dozen.
'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals
And wild dismay, o'er every angry cousin
(Friends of the party) who begin accusals,
Such as--"Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen
Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals
To his billets? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray,
Look yes least night, and yet say No to-day?"

Woo the fair one when around
Early birds are singing;
When o'er all the fragrant ground
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Woo the fair one when around
Early birds are singing;
When o'er all the fragrant ground
Early herbs are springing:
When the brookside, bank, and grove
All with blossom laden,
Shine with beauty, breathe of love,
Woo the timid maiden.

Never wedding, ever wooing,
Still a lovelorn heart pursuing,
Read you not the wrong you're doing
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Never wedding, ever wooing,
Still a lovelorn heart pursuing,
Read you not the wrong you're doing
In my cheek's pale hue?
All my life with sorrow strewing;
Wed or cease to woo.

She that with poetry is won,
Is but a desk to write upon;
And what men say read more

She that with poetry is won,
Is but a desk to write upon;
And what men say of her they mean
No more than on the thing they lean.

"Yes," I answered you last night;
"No," this morning, sir, I say:
Colors seen by candle-light
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"Yes," I answered you last night;
"No," this morning, sir, I say:
Colors seen by candle-light
Will not look the same by day.