BUTTERFLY WEED 
Let me go. 
You tell me I’m a rover— 
Fanny, sweet! 
You who chain me, still a lover, 
At your feet. 
Heaven knows I would forget thee, 
If I could; 
If—you witch!—you’d only let me, 
And you should! 
But your image dances still 
Before my face, 
And I watch, against my will, 
Its wavy grace. 
If I turn to see another, 
Then it tries, 
With its little hands, to cover 
Both my eyes. 
Then how can I forget thee, 
Fanny, say? 
When you will not even let me 
Look away! 
If another’s voice would chide my 
Dream divine, 
Low, pleading, sweet, beside me, 
Falters thine! 
Then how, suppose I wanted, 
Could I fly, 
With my heart and ear enchanted, 
By your sigh? 
Ah! my soul would break the fetter, 
Even here, 
If you would try to let her— 
Fanny, dear. 
