You may prick me with a thistle, if you ever hear me whistle

How my brooding mate, whose weariness my carols sweet dispel,

All between the clouds and clover, appleblossoms drooping over,

Twitters low that I must never, never, never, never tell.

Oh, I swear no closer fellow stains his bili in cherries mellow.

Tra la la! and tirra lirra! I'm the jauntiest sentinel,

Perched beside my jewel-casket, where lie hidden - don't you ask it,

For of those three eggs I'll never, never, never, never tell.

Chirp ! chirp ! chirp ! alack! for pity! Who hath marred my merry ditty? Who hath stirred the scented petals, peeping in where robins dwell? Oh, my mate! May Heaven defend her! Little maidens' hearts are tender, And I never, never, never, never, never meant to tell.

A SONG OF RICHES

WHAT will you give to a barefoot lass, Morning with breath like wine? Wade, bare feet! In my wide morass Starry marigolds shine.

Alms, sweet Noon, for a barefoot lass, With her laughing looks aglow! Run, bare feet! In my fragrant grass Golden buttercups blow.

Gift, a gift for a barefoot lass,
O twilight hour of dreams!
Rest, bare feet, by my lake of glass,
Where the mirrored sunset gleams.

Homeward the weary merchants pass,
With the gold bedimmed by care.
Little they wis that the barefoot lass
Is the only millionaire.

THE LITTLE KNIGHT IN

GREEN

WHAT fragrant-footed comer
Is stepping o'er my head?
Behold, my queen! the Summer!

Who deems her warriors dead.
Now rise, ye knights of many fights,
From out your sleep profound!

Make sharp your spears, my gallant peers, And prick the frozen ground.

Last hope my heart gives over.

But hark! a shout of cheer!
Don Daisy and Count Clover,
Sir Buttercup, are here!
Behold! behold! with shield of gold
Prince Dandelion comes.
Lord Bumble-Bee beats valiantly
His rolling battle-drums.

My brothers leave their slumbers
And lead the van of war;
Before our swelling numbers
The foes are driven far.

The day's our own; but, overthrown,
A little Knight in green,

I kiss her feet and deem it sweet
To perish for my queen.

thoughts discern

A temple or a palace. Some great queen's Daughter art thou? or humbly one of

those

ON A GREEK VASE

DIVINELY shapen cup, thy lip

Unto me seemeth thus to speak: "Behold in me the workmanship, The grace and cunning of a Greek!

"Long ages since he mixed the clay, Whose sense of symmetry was such, The labor of a single day

Immortal grew beneath his touch.

"For dreaming while his fingers went Around this slender neck of mine, The form of her he loved was blent With every matchless curve and line.

"Her loveliness to me he gave

Who gave unto herself his heart, That love and beauty from the grave Might rise and live again in art."

And hearing from thy lips this tale

Of love and skill, of art and grace, Thou seem'st to me no more the frail Memento of an older race:

But in thy form divinely wrought

And figured o'er with fret and scroll, I dream, by happy chance was caught, And dwelleth now, that maiden's soul.

TO A ROSE

Go, Rose, and in her golden hair
You shall forget the garden soon;
The sunshine is a captive there
And crowns her with a constant noon.

And when your spicy odor goes,

And fades the beauty of your bloom, Think what a lovely hand, O Rose, Shall place your body in the tomb!

ON SOME BUTTERCUPS

A LITTLE way below her chin,
Caught in her bosom's snowy hem,
Some buttercups are fastened in,
Ah, how
envy them!

They do not miss their meadow place,
Nor are they conscious that their skies
Are not the heavens, but her face,
Her hair, and mild blue eyes.

There, in the downy meshes pinned,

Such sweet illusions haunt their rest; They think her breath the fragrant wind, And tremble on her breast;

As if, close to her heart, they heard
A captive secret slip its cell,
And with desire were sudden stirred
To find a voice and tell!

THE LIBRARY

GIVE me the room whose every nook Is dedicated to a book:

--

Two windows will suffice for air
And grant the light admission there,
One looking to the south, and one
To speed the red, departing sun.
The eastern wall from frieze to plinth
Shall be the Poet's labyrinth,

Where one may find the lords of rhyme
From Homer's down to Dobson's time;
And at the northern side a space
Shall show an open chimney-place,
Set round with ancient tiles that tell
Some legend old, and weave a spell
About the firedog-guarded seat,
Where, musing, one may taste the heat:
Above, the mantel should not lack
For curios and bric-à-brac,

Not much, but just enough to light
The room up when the fire is bright.
The volumes on this wall should be
All prose and all philosophy,

From Plato down to those who are
The dim reflections of that star;
And these tomes all should serve to show
How much we write - how little know;
For since the problem first was set
No one has ever solved it yet.
Upon the shelves along the west
The scientific books shall rest;
Beside them, History; above,
Religion, hope, and faith, and love:
Lastly, the southern wall should hold
The story-tellers, new and old;

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