To Estelle

A poem by Edward Smyth Jones

Coy, sweet maid, I love so well,
Fair Estelle.
How much I love thee tongue can't tell,
Sweet Estelle.
But I love thee - love thee true -
More than violets love the dew,
More than roses love the sun -
Do I love thee, dearest one,
Dear Estelle!

Ah! my heart love's passions swell
For Estelle!
How I love my actions tell
Thee, Estelle:
That I love thy smiling face,
And thy captivating grace -
Love thy dreamy 'witching eyes
More than planets love the skies,
Wee Estelle!

Now I smite my lyre to swell
For Estelle;
Music's most entrancing spell
O'er Estelle.
With my fingers on my keys,
Like the balmy morning breeze
Stealing softly through the grain,
Will I gently wake a strain
For Estelle!

How I love my little belle,
My Estelle!
Deepest in my sacred dell
Is Estelle!
I esteem my maiden love
More than angels high above,
More than demons in the sea;
Love is light and life to me,
And Estelle!

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