Stays a moment in her flight

Where the warmest breezes waft her,

By the meadow brook to lean,

Or where winter rye is growing,

Showing in a lovelier green

Where her wayward steps are going.

Blithesome April brown and warm,

Showing slimness through her tatters,

Chased by sun or chased by storm—

Not a whit to her it matters.

Swiftly through the violet bed,

Down to where the stream is flooding

Light she flits—and round her head

See the orchard branches budding!

{19}

{19}

The Visitors

IN the room where I was sleeping

I

The sun came to the floor;

 Prev. P 15/78 next