I had seen him a dozen times before,
With a pleasure that brought no sudden change;
I knew that he lik'd me--but nothing more:
O Harry! to think of it _is_ so strange!
Sauntering on with the birds and the flowers,
Talking of things that we know or we knew--
Of the pretty wishes that once were ours
In long-ago times when our years were few:
A wild little bird skims rapidly by;
And I tell of a day when my heart was stirr'd,
And I cried as only a child can cry,
That I was a girl instead of a bird.
'And oh!' in an eager manner I cried,
'I am feeling the very same wish to-day:
Oh for two wild wings, and to spread them wide,
And rush through the sky away and away.'
I cast up my eyes, to the smiling skies,
And smiling I lower'd their glance again,
And as they were lower'd they met his eyes,
And a thrill went through me of sweetest pain.
I blush'd when I thought of my eager words--
But why do I blush? and why do I care?
What does it matter to me and the birds,
Or the pretty blossoms or scented air?
'And I,' he replied, 'have my wishes too:
Time teaches the real meaning of things;
And only this moment, looking at you,
I felt that an angel need _not_ have wings.'
We had sauntered on to the garden gate:
He look'd in my eyes ere we turn'd to part:
I walk'd away in a manner sedate,
And with something new just touching my heart.
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