"My mother says I must not pass Too near that glass;She is afraid that I will seeA little witch that looks like me,With a red, red mouth, to whisper lowThe very thing I should not know!"
Alack for all your mother's care! A bird of the air,A wistful wind, or (I supposeSent by some hapless boy) a rose,With breath too sweet, will whisper low,The very thing you should not know!
