IMPROMPTU.
WERE I a gay lover, sweet Eveline dear,
I'd press to my lips this pattern cashmere;
The warp, and the wool, and the color combined,
Were blown 'cross the lake by the cold winter wind;
There, bathed by the moonlight's soft ray alone,
'Twas found;but O where had the nightingale flown?
A part of the plumage, truly how dear—
They said it was simply a piece of cashmere:
How rudely 'twas torn, it grieved me to see;
I'll return it, bright angel, with kisses to thee.
I'd press to my lips this pattern cashmere;
The warp, and the wool, and the color combined,
Were blown 'cross the lake by the cold winter wind;
There, bathed by the moonlight's soft ray alone,
'Twas found;but O where had the nightingale flown?
A part of the plumage, truly how dear—
They said it was simply a piece of cashmere:
How rudely 'twas torn, it grieved me to see;
I'll return it, bright angel, with kisses to thee.
