White and blue we hunted them

In the moss, and gave them,

Dropping-tir'd and short in stem,

To Mother. She must have them.

Primrose-mornings in the copse,

Autumn berrying

Where the dew for ever stops,

And the serrying,

Clinging shrouds of gossamers

Glue your eyes together;

Gleaning after harvesters

In the mild blue weather—

Life so full of bud and blossom,

Fallen like a tree!

Who gave me a woman's bosom—

And who has robb'd me?

[Pg 21]

[Pg 21]

 III i 

III

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