Thomas Ashe (1836–1889)

CAME, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet,

In white, to find her lover;

The grass grew proud beneath her feet,

The green elm-leaves above her:—

Meet we no angels, Pansie?

She said, ‘We meet no angels now’;

And soft lights stream’d upon her;

And with white hand she touch’d a bough;

She did it that great honour:—

What! meet no angels, Pansie?

O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes,

Down-dropp’d brown eyes, so tender!

Then what said I?—gallant replies

Seem flattery, and offend her:—

But—meet no angels, Pansie?