Angry

My Love sits angry; see!

Her foot shakes in the light;

Her timid, little foot,

That else would hide from sight.

Her left hand props her cheek;

Its little finger plays

Upon her under-lip,

And makes a harp-like noise.

Her lip’s red manuscript

She has unrolled and spread;

So I may read ill news,

And hang my guilty head.

My Love sits angry; see!

She’s red up to her eyes;

And was her face flogged by

The wings of Butterflies?

Her right hand’s in her lap,

So small, so soft, so white;

She in her anger makes

Five fingers hide from sight.

Two golden curls have now

Dropped out of their silk net;

There they must stop, for she

Will not restore them yet.

My Love, she is so fair

When in this angry way,

That did she guess my thoughts,

She’d quarrel every day.