To A Maid Demure

OFTEN when the night is come, With its quiet group at home, While they broider, knit, or sew, Read, or chat in voices low, Suddenly you lift your eyes With an earnest look, and wise; But I cannot read their lore,— Tell me less, or tell me more. Like a picture in a book, Pure and peaceful is your look, Quietly you walk your ways; Steadfast duty fills the days. Neither tears nor fierce delights, Feverish days nor tossing nights, Any troublous dreams confess,— Tell me more, or tell me less. Swift the weeks are on the wing; Years are brief, and love a thing Blooming, fading, like a flower; Wake and seize the little hour. Give me welcome, or farewell; Quick! I wait! And who can tell What to-morrow may befall,— Love me more, or not at all.