Curled up and sitting on her feet. <br />Within the window's deep embrasure, <br />Is Lydia; and across the street, <br />A lad, with eyes of roguish azure, <br />Watches her buried in her book. <br />In vain he tries to win a look, <br />And from the trellis over there <br />Blows sundry kisses through the air, <br />Which miss the mark, and fall unseen, <br />Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen. <br /> <br />My lad, if you, without abuse, <br />Will take advise from one who's wiser, <br />And put his wisdom to more use <br />Than ever yet did your adviser; <br />If you will let, as none will do, <br />Another's heartbreak serve for two, <br />You'll have a care, some four years hence, <br />How you lounge there by yonder fence <br />And blow those kisses through that screen-- <br />For Lydia will be seventeen.<br /><br />Thomas Bailey Aldrich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/l-eau-dormante/
