Now that again the nearing sun slants warm each southern slope on,
Belinda, of a sudden, leaves the noisy town behind,
And slowly fares across the fields (with rubbers, let us hope, on),
While shadows on her forehead tell of something on her mind.

What is it in the spring-time drives a maid to meditation?
What brings her out to tramp the fields in chosen solitude?
Some matter of finance, or faith, or heart or station?
It must be what would all these four and most things else include.

Oh, what is man, Belinda dear, that you are mindful of him?
Caressed of fortune, can it be there's anything you lack?
Ay, there's the rub! so much to lose — so great a risk to love him!
And yet, who dares not love may miss what never may come back!

Take heed, Belinda! Life is long, with many a snare to gin him.
Be sure he's straight, as humans go, and sound and sane and true;
Be sure he has withal the saving streak of iron in him
To make him deaf when sirens sing, and calm when notes fall due!

Wise choice to you, Belinda! Man's no easy thing to measure,
For now and then he justifies the shape he's moulded in;
And then again he doesn't: still, an able woman's leisure
May find worse use than steering him, and helping him to win.