LITTLE ANNA young and fair,
How with heart a-dancing,
I descry her image rare,
O’er the footway glancing.
Ah, those locks of dusky hue,
Ah, those eyes that twinkle,
Now I laugh their sheen to view—
Now my tears down trinkle!
Rare her grace, her bearing rare,
Meteor-like she glideth;
And where’er she glideth, there
Some dire ill betideth.
In the earth or in the air
Lo, an imp abideth
All, to whelm in despair
He who love derideth.
So do I—I who love mocked—
Feel unto my anguish,
In love’s magic fetters locked
Night and day I languish;
Not a bit of use am I,
Save with arms a-kimbo,
Thus to sit and thus to sigh,
And wish myself at limbo.
Oft from tossings to and fro,
Bite or sup unheeded
Up, from bed to work I’ll go
Long before it’s needed.
But a-pit, love a-smit,
Do all I can do now;
Still a-wry the pick will fly,
And no coal will hew, now.
Can it be her voice I hear,
When my pick is swinging?
When her tongue attracts the ear,
Golden bells are ringing:
Do I dream? or is’t her e’en
Yonder nook adorning?
Blacker than the coal, their sheen
Mocks the coal a-burning.
Daily—hourly, by the elf
I, who love derided,
Witched—nay lost am to myself,—
From myself divided:
Lost?—I’m cross’d and tempest toss’d
On a sea of passion,
And shall so remain while, lo!
There’s a rock to dash on!
Ah, those locks, and ah those eyes!
Ah, the rest they’ve broken!
But in vain their victim tries—
Love can ne’er be spoken:
Man may fathom ocean—say
The reason of its motion,
But Love’s magic never—nay,
It’s deeper than the ocean.
Other works by Joseph Skipsey...
