Among the flowers, my young muse steals
With daring, darting, glancing skips,
Of every hue she makes a meal
And naught but laughter courts her lips.
We jaunt atop a foreign mount,
So close we knew it hardly real,
Where pansies burst of heavens fount
And bloom with shades that bring to heel:
All that a man could claim his own,
While beauty stirs the springtime bees,
He might hardly hold where he may roam,
His only fear: that it should cease.
But treetops bend, as catch the eyes,
A darker hue now claims the skies.