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A PROBLEM.
When I yield to every whim,
She straight begins to pout.
Teach me how to read my love,
How to find her out!
She straight begins to pout.
Teach me how to read my love,
How to find her out!
For flowers she gives me thistle-blooms,—
Her turtle-doves are crows,—
I am the groaning weather-vane,
And she the wind that blows.
Her turtle-doves are crows,—
I am the groaning weather-vane,
And she the wind that blows.
My little love! My teasing love
Was woman made for man,—
A rose that blossomed from his side?
Believe it—those who can.
Was woman made for man,—
A rose that blossomed from his side?
Believe it—those who can.
