A Specialist

Each of your kisses is sweet to me

   As a carameled grape is sweet,

And your laugh—your lilting laugh and free—

   Is a silvery, heaven-sent treat;

And, though I’m not a chiropodist,

   Still, darling, I’m at your feet!

I would not be a chiropodist,

   But still I am at your feet.

Your hands are coo as the morns are cool,

   Fresh cooled by the midnight dew!

Your eyes—ah, each is a limpid pool,

   A pool of cerulean hue!

And, though, I am not an oculist,

   I would look in the eyes o’ you!

Indeed, I am not an oculist,

   But I’m loving the eyes of you.

Your lips are as red as a rose is red!

   Your tresses escape their bands,

And are truant ringlets about your head

   And about your restoring hands!

I’m not doing a manicuring stunt,

   But, darling, I love your hands!

No, manicuring is not my stunt,

   But gladly I’d hold your hands.

No manicurist, chiropodist,

   Nor oculist, dear, am I;

My specialty’s loving you, dear, you wist,

   Just loving you till I die!

Your lips, your hands, your golden hair,

   The laugh in your twinkling eye!

I’m a specialist, dear; my specialty

   Is loving you till I die.

Lilts O Love Table Of Contents