Little head against my shoulder,
    Shy at first, then somewhat bolder,
     And up-eyed;
    Till she, with a timid quaver,
    Yielded to the kiss I gave her;
     But, she sighed.

    That there mingled with her feeling
    Some sad thought she was concealing
     It implied.
    —Not that she had ceased to love me,
    None on earth she set above me;
     But she sighed.

    She could not disguise a passion,
    Dread, or doubt, in weakest fashion
     If she tried:
    Nothing seemed to hold us sundered,
    Hearts were victors; so I wondered
     Why she sighed.

    Afterwards I knew her throughly,
    And she loved me staunchly, truly,
     Till she died;
    But she never made confession
    Why, at that first sweet concession,
     She had sighed.

    It was in our May, remember;
    And though now I near November,
     And abide
    Till my appointed change, unfretting,
    Sometimes I sit half regretting
     That she sighed.

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