The Villa Rosalind

Snug in the Villa Rosalind that stands by Touchstone Tarn,
With stepping stones about its brim to serve them for a sarn,
   White ladies dwell, and gentlemen in argent robed bedight,
Come summer sun, come winter wind,
The gentlefolk at Rosalind
   Go ever garbed in white.

As in and out, by many a door, at Rosalind they go,
The ladies curtsey to the floor, the gentlemen bow low.
   And, as they pass, no gallant there a goodly chance would miss,
In softest accents ever heard,
To greet his lady with a word,
   And often with a kiss.

To watch the coy white gentlemen -- well-bred, partrician folk --
You'd guess that each might wear a sword beneath his snowy cloak;
   You'd think the coy white ladies each might flirt a painted fan
To match her grace, or else to hold
Before her face to fend some bold,
   Too ardent gentleman.

They bathe betimes in Touchstone Tarn, together at the dawn;
Then, stepping very daintily, they walk the sunlit lawn;
   And by the Villa Rosalind they daily, two and two,
Thro' many a fragrant, flowery maze,
Pausing a while by shaded ways
   Blithely to bill and coo.

They bill and coo right lustily; for, honest truth to tell,
A pigeon cote is Rosalind, where ten white fantails dwell.
   But when I'd learn of gallantry, I pause by Touchstone's side
And watch the well-bred suitors there,
Each by his lady take the air
   In deferential pride.