A Coquette
by Amy Pierce
I am never in doubt of her goodness,
I am always afraid of her mood,
I am never quite sure of her temper,
For wilfulness runs in her blood.
She is sweet with the sweetness of springtime—
A tear and a smile in an hour—
Yet I ask not release from her slightest caprice,
My love with the face of a flower.
My love with the grace of the lily
That sways on its slender fair stem,
My love with the bloom of the rosebud,
White pearl in my life's diadem!
You may call her coquette if it please you,
Enchanting, if shy or if bold,
Is my darling, my winsome wee lassie,
Whose birthdays are three, when all told.
from
Holiday Stories for Young People
compiled and edited by
Margaret E. Sangster,
1896
Instead of building a platform from which mansplaining about the sexualization of children or the subjugation of women could be broadcast, I'd instead take a moment to reflect upon the concept that language is alive. From the etymology of coquette, to this poem, to the definition written seventeen years later, that not only is language subjective but also that the precision of language, although desirable, is an unattainable goal as English is a living language. The precision of grammar, on the other hand...
iron noder