But not so fair as you!

 The black-birds sing on hazel boughs

 Beneath the overarching trees,

 The cuckoo’s distant song is borne

 Across the meadow by the breeze,

 The thrush’s song is sweetest far

 But saddens as the hours go by.

 You hear? The nightingale’s in love,

 But not so much as I!

 E. Nesbit.

Girdled with gold my little lady’s bower

Girdled

 Stands at the portals of a world in flower,

 And down her ways the changing blossoms mark

 How the Spring grows each day from dawn to dark.

  

 When forth she moves, her dainty foot is set,

 On cowslip, hyacinth and violet,

 And all day long the woodland minstrels sing

 Changes of measure for her pleasuring.

 Prev. P 7/16 next