And now in the old green garden,-- I know not how it came,-- A single pansy is blooming, Bright as a yellow flame. And whenever a gay gust passes, It quivers as if with pain, For the butterfly-soul that is in it Longs for the winds again! II THE SPRING BEAUTIES The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church; A Thrush, white-breasted, o’er them sat singing on his perch. “Happy be! for fair are ye!” the gentle singer told them, But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them. “Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!” Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee, Half parson-like, half soldierly. The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes, Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes; And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass, They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass. All because the buff-coat Bee Lectured them so solemnly:-- “Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!” III THISBE The garden within was shaded, And guarded about from sight; The fragrance flowed to the south wind, The fountain leaped to the light. And the street without was narrow, And dusty, and hot, and mean; But the bush that bore white roses, She leaned to the fence between: And softly she sought a crevice In that barrier blank and tall, And shyly she thrust out through it Her loveliest bud of all. And tender to touch, and gracious, And pure as the moon’s pure shine, The full rose paled and was perfect,-- For whose eyes, for whose lips, but mine! A RHYME OF ROBIN PUCK Howsoe’er the tale be spread, Puck, the pranksome, is not dead. At such tidings of mishap, Any breeze-blown columbine Would but toss a scarlet cap,-- Would but laugh, with shaken head, “Trust it not, do not repine, Puck, the pranksome, is not dead!” If you know not what to think, Ask the tittering bobolink; Straightway shall the answer rise Bubbling from his gleeful breast: “Dead? ’Tis but his latest jest! Robin Puck, the wild and wise, Frolics on, and never dies!” Had we but the elfin sight, On some pleasant summer night We should see him and his crew In the fields that gleam with dew; Had we but the elfin ear, (Pointed sharply like a leaf,) In the meadows we should hear Fairy pipings, fine and brief, Shrilled through throats of tiniest flowers; Would that subtler sense were ours!