The Poetry Corner

Nettie.

By John Hartley

Nettie, Nettie! oh, she's pretty! With her wreath of golden curls; None compare with charming Nettie, She's the prettiest of girls. Not her face alone is sweetest, - Nor her eyes the bluest blue, But her figure is the neatest Of all forms I ever knew. But she has a fault, - the greatest That a pretty girl could have; When she's looking the sedatist, And pretending to be grave, - You discover, 'spite of hiding, What I feel constrained to tell; That she knows she is a beauty, - Knows it, - knows it, - aye, too well. May be when the bloom has vanished; Which we know in time it will; And her foolish fancies banished, May be, she'll be lovely still. For though Time may put his finger, On her dainty-fashioned face; There will still some beauty linger, Round her form so full of grace. And her heart, - the priceless treasure, Which so many long to win, Still shall prove a fount of pleasure, To the love that enters in. Pity 'tis that fairest blossoms Must in time fall from the tree; Pity 'tis that snow-white bosoms Must yield up their symmetry. Brightest eyes will lose their love-light, Fairest cheeks grow pale and gray; - Golden locks will lose their sunlight, And the loveliest limbs decay. But whilst life is left we hunger For a taste of earthly bliss; But the man need seek no longer, Who can call sweet Nettie his.