THE TWELFTH DAY 
 
“ I grant thou wert not married to my Muse 
And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook 
The dedicated words which writers use 
Of their fair subjects.” 
The Sonnets. 
 
I learnt at last some sort of confidence, 
Called me the fool I was, knowing my skill 
Proven of old, all women’s native will 
To do all things soever that lack sense, 
Especially if evil :  thoughts immense 
Like this I thought :  plumes of my amorous quill 
I tickled her withal :  then grave and still 
Waited secure :  the silence grew intense. 
 
She read—and saw me but a beardless boy, 
Too young to fear, too gentle not to pity, 
Not overbold ; quite powerless to destroy 
Her life’s long peace, the ten-year-walléd city. 
Why be too cruel, check such baby joy ? 
She said “ I think the poem very pretty.” 
 
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