Across the Street

I DO not know it if she knows
I watch her, as she comes and goes:
I wonder if she dreams of it.
Sitting and working at my rhymes,
I weave her sunny hair at times
Into my verse, or gleams of it.
Upon her window-ledge is set
A box of flowering mignonnette;
Morning and night she tends to them,
The senseless flowers, that do not care
To kiss that strand of loosened hair
As prettily she bends to them.
If I could once contrive to get
Into that box of mignonnette,
Some morning as she tends to them! —
Dear me! I see the sweet blood rise
And bloom about her cheeks and eyes
And bosom, as she bends to them !
T. B. Aldrich.