I told my love a truth she liked not well;
She spoke no word. I raised my eyes to watch
Her cheek's red flush, her bosom's angry swell;
She rose to go; her hand was on the latch;
When some swift thought--of my fond love, maybe,
Or ill-requited patience--bowed her head:
She faltered, paused with foot half raised to flee,
Then turned, and stole into my arms instead.
_Reproduced, by special arrangement, from_ "Under the Hawthorn,
and Other Verse," by Augusta de Gruchy.
London: Edwin Matthews and John Lane, 1893.