Then they seem so unsteady, and waver about
When the cars with a jerk let a passenger out.
There's one getting in!—I won't look up at all,
But stare out of doors: she looks very small
Standing up in the crowd among those great men.
Her back is this way—I'll look once again.
'Tis a very nice back, and above and upon it,
With a curl peeping out, is a black velvet bonnet.
"Dear me! this is bad, then!"—Up goes the hand—
Not bigger than Rosie's—she hardly can stand.
I don't feel quite so tired; I said I'd sit still
In spite of temptations to come; and I will.
Well, I'm glad it ain't Rosie—she's not very strong;
A wee little woman, she couldn't stand long.
But stop! let me think; what if this one should be
To some other man what Rose is to me?
And how would I feel if some lazy boor
Should allow her to stand in the draft of the door?
I'm not tired a bit; I am fresh as can be—
"Here, madam, a seat."; "Oh, Fred!" "Rosalie!"
CALMER than midnight's deepest hush
Is the sun-bright summer nooning,
With its cloudy shadows seeking rest,
That fall on the hill-side swooning.