Maidens say I have no sweetheart,
And, perchance, it may be true,
But I never shall believe it
(Tell me truly now, would you?)
While there’s one that comes at sunset,
Comes across the emerald wheat—
Just to tell me I am pretty,
Just to tell me I am sweet!
Perches on the topmost branches
Of the dappled alder tree,
Calling thro’ the sunset’s splendor,
In a burst of ecstasy—
While I lean and look and listen,
While I hear my own heart beat—
“You are very, very pretty,
You are very, very sweet!”
Never once has he forgotten,
Never once has he sat dumb,
Since the fields have run to yellow,
Since the merry spring has come!
Always calling, brave, insistent—
All too brave to be discreet—
“You are very, very pretty,
You are very, very sweet!”
Maiden, have you then a lover
Who makes bolder love than this?
Is there any sweeter rapture
In a foolish, stolen kiss? …
Do but hear him, calling loudly,
Fearlessly, across the street—
“You are very, very pretty,
You are very, very sweet!”
Ah, my wild, sweet poet-lover
On the alder’s topmost bough—
I have had some courtly lovers,
Never one so fond as thou!
Never one with love so blinded,
Never one so indiscreet,
As to tell me I am pretty,
As to tell me I am sweet!
“My Sunset Robin Lover” as it appears in Ladies Home Journal, vol. 23, 1905-6.