NE SIT ANCILL^E TIBI AMOR PUDOR 107
IT BLOWS A SNOWING GALE
IT blows a snowing gale in the winter of the year ; The boats are on the sea and the crews are on the
pier.
The needle of the vane, it is veering to and fro, A flash of sun is on the veering of the vane.
Autumn leaves and ram,
The passion of the gale.
NE SIT ANCILL^ TIBI AMOR PUDOR
THERE'S just a twinkle in your eye That seems to say I might, if I Were only bold enough to try
An arm about your waist. I hear, too, as you come and go, That pretty nervous laugh, you know ; And then your cap is always so
Coquettishly displaced.
Your cap 1 the word's profanely said. That little top-knot, white and red, That quaintly crowns your graceful head, No bigger than a flower,