To a coy mistress

No letter from a disguised lady I met
In 1853. It has been two years and
I miss her, such a coy lady but so
happy twirling in lady clothes. How
adorable she looked in her white
petticoat. We escaped in rural
hidden retreats in Lancashire.
Who would suspect of two lovelies,
picking up flowers in splendid fields,
her hairy hands covered by elegant
gloves, holding a brush and sketching
me in watercolours. Maybe she
sings like a bird, behind the bars
of some dirty jail. I hope not. I keep
on waiting anxiously for her letter,
with details for a next rendezvous
holding hands in our magical land.