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Poem by Alfred Austin
She trembles when I touch The tips of scarce-grown fingers, Yet seems to think it overmuch If for a moment lingers Grasp that I hardly meant for such. She clutcheth toy or book, Or female hand beside her; Now with askant, unsettled look, Inviteth, then doth hide her, Like struggling lily in a brook. Anon she darteth glance Athwart averted shoulder; But when encouraged I advance, Asudden waxing colder, Her gaze lacks all significance. O were she younger still, Or more than a beginner, I might control my troubled will, Or give it rein and win her: But now she is nor good nor ill.
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