Classic Poem

When the young ladies of the boarding-school take the air,
They walk in pairs, each holding a blush-red parasol against the sun.
From my window they look like an ambulating parterre
Of roses, I cannot tell one from one.

There is a certain young person I dream of by night,
And paint by day on little two-by-three inch squares
Of ivory. Which is she? Which of all the parasols in sight
Covers the blithe, mocking face which stares
At me from twenty miniatures, confusing the singleness of my delight?

You know my window well enough—the fourth from the corner. Oh, you know.
Slant your parasol a bit this way, if you please,
And take for yourself the very correct bow
I make toward the line of demure young ladies
Perambulating the street in a neat row.
It is true I have never seen beneath your parasol,
Therefore my miniatures resemble one another not at all.

You must pick yourself like a button-hole bouquet,
And lift the parasol to my face one day,
And let me see you laughing at the sun—
Or at me. Then I will choose the one
Of my twenty miniatures most like you
And destroy the others, with which I shall have nothing more to do.