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.
