Classic Poem

When I was but a lad,
Long ago,
This simple lore I had,
Don't you know,
That every maiden fair
Was an angel unaware, —
And I wondered when and where
The wings would grow.

But wiser now am I,
A good deal,
Tho' I've sometimes seen them fly,
Yet I feel
They are something just between
Man and angel in their mien,
Since my Phillida I've seen
On her wheel.

She does not show a sign
Of a wing;
But her figure is divine
And the fling
Of her abbreviated gown,
As she flickers through the town,
Might buy the throne and crown
Of a king!

No halo of a saint
Does she wear,
Such as Lippo loved to paint;
But her hair —
As when all heaven streams
Thro' the landscape of my dreams —
In such glory floats and gleams
On the air!

But not all for heaven she, —
Not too good!
Yet she's good enough for me
In any mood.
And if her dashing wheel
Took her even to the de'il,
Thither, too, I'd gently steal, —
Yes, I would!