She trembles when I touch <br />The tips of scarce-grown fingers, <br />Yet seems to think it overmuch <br />If for a moment lingers <br />Grasp that I hardly meant for such. <br /> <br />She clutcheth toy or book, <br />Or female hand beside her; <br />Now with askant, unsettled look, <br />Inviteth, then doth hide her, <br />Like struggling lily in a brook. <br /> <br />Anon she darteth glance <br />Athwart averted shoulder; <br />But when encouraged I advance, <br />Asudden waxing colder, <br />Her gaze lacks all significance. <br /> <br />O were she younger still, <br />Or more than a beginner, <br />I might control my troubled will, <br />Or give it rein and win her: <br />But now she is nor good nor ill.<br /><br />Alfred Austin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/grata-juventas/
