I Lent my love a book one day;
  She brought it back; I laid it by:
’T was little either had to say,—
  She was so strange, and I so shy.

But yet we loved indifferent things,—
  The sprouting buds, the birds in tune,—
And Time stood still and wreathed his wings
  With rosy links from June to June.

For her, what task to dare or...