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Poem by Alfred Austin


Grata Juventas


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. 



Alfred Austin


Alfred Austin's other poems:
  1. Mozarts Grave
  2. Invocation
  3. To Robert Louis Stevenson
  4. Times Weariness
  5. Nocturnal Vigils


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