When, full of warm and eager love,
I clasp you in my fond embrace,
You gently push me back and say,
“Take care, my dear, you ‘ll spoil my lace.”
You kiss me just as you would kiss
Some woman friend you chanced to see;
You call me “dearest.” All love’s forms
Are yours, not its reality.
Oh, Annie! cry, and storm, and rave!
Do anything with passion in it!
Hate me an hour, and then turn round
And love me truly, just one minute.
William Wetmore Story, 1819-1895