230 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Ah! wherefore did he tell me this? 
His praises made me vain ; 
And, when he left me, how I long’d 
To hear that voice again ! 
I wonder’d why my old pursuits 
Had lost their wonted charm. 
And why the path was dull, unless 
I leant upon his arm. 
Alas! 1 might have guess’d the cause; 
For what could make me shun 
My parents’ cheerful dwelling-place 
To wander all alone ? 
And what could make me braid my hair. 
And study to improve 
The form that he had deign’d to praise ? 
What could it be but love ? 
Oh! little knew I of the world, 
And less of man’s career; 
I thought each smile was kindly meant. 
Each word of praise sincere. 
His sweet voice spoke of endless love — 
I listened and believed. 
And little dreamt how oft before 
That sweet voice had deceived. 
He smiles upon another now. 
And in the same sweet tone 
He breathes to her those winning words 
I once thought all my own. 
