She comes upstairs,
	Tall, dark, smiling,
	Her book of British poetry
	Clasped close to her soft breast.
	Her coat is white,
	Her smile, youth and joy.
	Her eyes twinkle;
	No other girl's eyes have twinkled so.
	Yet-- and yet again, no,
	'Tis not true;
	For every lass I've loved,
	Were her eyes brown or deepest blue,
	Had sparkling eyesight, too.
	Her smile is warm and true
	Yet galls me like a cinch
	And impales my heart
	On a shaft of purest joy.
	I love this creature,
	This woman, this collegiate maid,
	Sweetest of gentle girls...
	Though, perhaps, I praise overmuch.
	She is--must be!--human
	But too much so!
	Why do I mourn my inability
	To win her dear?
	Why do I mope in self-pity
	For one, when, persevering,
	I doubtless could have another
	Just as good as she?
	Just as good?
	I--I am not sure...
	She treds the stairs mortal;
	She breathes earthly air;
	Three times daily must she eat
	And by night she sleeps gently,
	Dreaming mortal dreams.
	Oh, to see her face
	Sleep-softened, purged of fear and care!
	To see, to feel, to kiss
	But not awaken.
	I raise her to godhood:
	She stands atop the holy mount,
	Divine and adorable.
	Yet, her bare foot
	Leaves markings in the sand.
	Am I wrong to love this woman?
	Love and love
	Yet never tell it,
	Never say it in any way
	Save a smile on the stairs?
	I dare not speak, nor even hint,
	That I find her company
	Worth ten-thousand times a thousand
	Other maids'.
	Such simple things mean so much:
	A single flower held in love,
	A breath of air, a glance,
	A touch--
	On the stairway, a smile.
	Doth she mean overmuch?
	How can I tell without telling?
	I cannot.
	She pierces me with her joy
	All unknowingly.
	I pierce myself with her joy
	Knowing all the while.
	Oh, for a moment of her life!
	An instant to know the truth!
	She comes upstairs
	Smiling, smiling.


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